Those in Peril on the Sea
by IronicNarwhal
Summary: While on a ship taking him and his fiancé to America to be married, Sherlock Holmes met a man named John Watson. Over five days, their lives were irreversibly entangled. But this was not the typical love story, for the ship they were on was the RMS Titanic, and from the moment the great ship set off from Southampton in April 1912, it was destined for tragedy.
1. Prologue: Eye of the Sea

**Summary: **When in 1910 the Holmes Corporation found itself without an obvious male heir ready to take over, the Holmes family did the only thing they could: offer their youngest son, Sherlock, for marriage. In accordance with the times, they had to send him through a rigorous and demeaning process called feminization, to make it socially acceptable for him to marry a man. It was in hopes that Sherlock's husband could take over the company while their eldest son, Mycroft, was groomed into something resembling a decent CEO. Who they found was James Moriarty, youngest son of a firearms manufacturer and certainly qualified to take the Holmes Corporation under his wig.

While on a steamship taking him and his fiancé to America to be married, Sherlock met a man named John Watson. Over the period of five days, their lives were irreversibly entangled. But this was not the typical love story; the ship they were on was the RMS _Titanic_. From the moment it set off from Southampton on April 10th, 1912, the great ship was fated for destruction.

Eighty-five years later, an elderly and dying Sherlock Holmes tells his story to a research and salvage team recovering artifacts from the wreck of the ship upon which his life changed.

**Warnings**: Swearing, violence, future adult themes

**Pairing**: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, one-sided Jim Moriarty/Sherlock Holmes

**Disclaimer**: I do not own _Sherlock_. The contemporary versions of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters belong to Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and their associates. The plot of _Titanic_ belongs to James Cameron and his associates. The only thing I own is the story below as you see it written.

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><p><strong>Prologue: Eye of the Sea<strong>

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><p>The television is nothing but noise for noise's sake, these days. Grandfather can't really watch it, unless he gets right in front of it and has his glasses on, but that's bad for his eyes so she doesn't let him do that too often. She can't help but wonder if he's using it as a substitute radio, since those were rendered obsolete about twenty years ago, and the old antique radio Grandfather owned was broken a few years ago by one of the younger great-grandchildren. There were six of them, on Penny's last count, but she's not sure. Her cousins don't keep well in touch and she doesn't much bother to keep in touch with them either. In all likelihood, one of them <em>has<em> popped out another kid since she last talked to them.

For all she knows, one of her cousins' children has had a child by now. There are several that are certainly old enough for it. Being the youngest child of the youngest child means that several of her cousins' children are almost as old as her. But she wouldn't know, because as much as her cousins do not speak to her, their children do not either.

At least she has an _excuse_ to drop out of touch, she tells herself. Her days mostly consist of going to university in the morning, dropping home to feed the cat, and then hurrying over here in the afternoon to give Grandfather his lunch and make sure he hasn't fallen down the stairs. He's by far the sturdiest man over one-hundred she's ever met, but the fact still remains that he turned 101 in January, and men of that age are not nearly as in possession of their facilities as a man twenty years their junior. That's saying something, considering when you're as old as her grandfather is, a man twenty years your junior is in his eighties.

Grandfather is in the study, trying to read and getting frustrated, muttering about his damned trifocals and how they don't work at all. As Penny gives him his post-lunch cuppa, he grumbles that he used to have perfect vision, twenty-twenty, and he had it until he turned ninety. That, Penny's mental timeline supplies for her, was around the time he also started exhibiting signs of dementia and had a stroke. She wonders if he remembers that, today.

Her mother, whom is the youngest of her siblings by far (There was her, Mary, born in 1940; Uncle Emmet, born in 1927; Uncle Graham, born in 1921; and the first child whom was stillborn in 1918 and never given a name), took care of her father since Penny could remember. He was already so old when Penny was born, and some of her earliest memories are coming to visit Grandfather in his small, strange flat in the middle of London, which he eventually left when Penny was about ten and he was about ninety. The summer Penny turned twelve, her mother sat her down and told her that they were going to go live with Grandfather for a little while, just a little while, hardly long enough to miss London. Penny's brothers were both older and in University by then. It didn't affect them as much.

She protested as much as she could. _No, I don't _want_ to live with Grandfather. His house smells weird and _he's_ weird and he doesn't like me, Mummy, don't _make me_._

Her mother just sighed, her face becoming drawn. Penny was too young to realize it at the time, but her mother was getting old, too. She was almost fifty by then.

_Grandfather _loves _you, Penny. Please, love; it's just for the summer. We'll be back in London in time for the new term._

Penny grumbled that they had _better_.

They weren't. Grandfather had a stroke mid-August and was in the hospital until the end of the year. Mum enrolled her in a school in Sussex, just for temporary she claimed, and every day they went and visited Grandfather, whom was tied to tubes and beeping machines and looked oddly small.

Mum told her that Grandfather might not make it till Christmas.

He lived, though. He came home in mid-January, right around his ninety-first birthday. Things got back to normal, then, but Penny and her mum never did get around to going back to London. There was only her mum to take care of Grandfather, really. Both of mum's brothers were way too old, themselves, and were being looked after by their own children by now, or their wives. Penny had never met her Grandma. She died of tuberculosis in the forties. Her name was Molly; Penny's middle name.

When Penny graduated, she offered to take up the care of Grandfather. Mum was so tired, all the time, and she was so near sixty. She didn't have a lot of active, quality life left. Penny told her mum to go somewhere for the summer, France or Italy or even Greece, and relax. Her mum hadn't, of course, but she at least allowed Penny to take over the job of primary caregiver for Grandfather.

Two years later, and Penny has learned some things. Most importantly, her grandfather is not a cruel man. She grew up in fear of him; of his calculating stares and his prodding questions and his ever-so-constant declarations of _You can do better than that, Penelope. You're a Holmes. Act like one_.

(He never explained why he said _Holmes_ when, as far as she knew, Grandfather was a Watson.)

However, she's realized that he loves them, she and her mum and her uncles and everyone, more than he can ever say. Quite literally, he has never said it. But there is love, of a tough kind, behind every disapproving stare and irritated sigh and mutter of _don't be daft_. They aren't rejection. They are him trying to better them. He never raised a hand to any of his children, and only raised his voice when absolutely necessary.

He told her once that he's only ever told one person aside from his mother that he loves them, and that person is long dead. She's always assumed it was her grandmother.

She can understand it, to a certain extent. He grew up in a wealthy family, so her mother says, and in a time where being a man in Britain meant leaving emotions unsaid and showing affection in actions. Stiff upper lip, no frivolities. It was the time of working to prove your love, and he worked himself raw. Worked tirelessly to provide for his family.

Her grandfather was once one of the greatest detectives London ever knew. Still is, probably, although his name has been lost to the history books. There have been countless people wanting to write his biography, tell of his adventures. The name Sherlock Watson used to be akin to that of a celebrity. People came to crime scenes just to get a glimpse of him.

Sometimes, Penny thinks he forgets he's 101 years old. Sometimes he sits there and mutters to himself, talking about things that just don't make sense. Sometimes he gets up and calls into the kitchen, where there is no one, that he's going to pop down to Scotland Yard to have a chat with Gregson. It's these times that scare her the most, because when she comes rushing into the room, sits him back down, says, "Grandfather, don't," he glares at her and calls her Molly and tells her not to make a fuss, that he'll be fine, he'll just be gone twenty minutes.

Sometimes she worries that he'll do that in the morning, when she's not there, while she's at school. He'll walk out the door and become disoriented, because Sussex doesn't look like London at all, and yes he may have altered perceptions due to dementia, but he's not _hallucinating_. He can tell the difference between Sussex and London.

She fears that he'll walk out of the house one day and forget how to get home.

It's the worst, though, when he sits there and talks to _John_. She does not know who John is, nor do her mother or uncles. John is a complete mystery to everybody but Grandfather. All Penny knows is that John must have been in her Grandfather's life before even Grandmother because when she tries to speak with him, he has no idea whatsoever of who she is. He doesn't call her Molly, he doesn't call her Mary. He just stares at her and demands to know what she's doing in his flat.

They're frustrating days, the John Days.

When he's lucid, which is less and less often, he refuses to talk about them.

Today is not a John Day, or even a Scotland Yard Day. Today he's sitting very quietly in the study, aside from the continued mutterings about his glasses, and he seems to know where he is and how old he is and who Penny is, so she's grateful. She had an hour-long argument with him yesterday because Grandfather thought she was her mother, and kept demanding to know where 'the baby' (Her, perhaps?) was. Kept threatening to ring her neck if she'd left 'the baby' with that 'thrice-damned cretin of a husband.'

Another thing she has learned from spending so much time around Grandfather and his confusion is he _never_ liked Penny's father, David Anderson, even before he and her mother divorced when Penny was five. Penny spent a single summer with him, up in Glasgow where he relocated after the divorce, when she was sixteen. Nothing about him seemed objectionable. Then again, she barely knew the man, and their getting-to-know-you process was severely handicapped by the fact that he seemed to still think she was the five-year-old kid he left behind. Penny left for her last year of school feeling oddly disappointed, despite her general lack of expectations when she decided to visit him.

They kept in touch for about two months, usually via short emails, until one day Penny read his email and decided not to reply. They haven't talked since Penny was eighteen.

Penny's always kind of wondered if Grandfather disliked her father for what he _didn't_ do, rather than what he'd done. David Anderson was a very unremarkable man, as far as Penny could tell, aside from however much intelligence it took to get a Doctorate. He was a Pleb, as far as Penny could tell, and Grandfather hated Plebs.

In the present, in her grandfather's house, it is a comparatively calm day. The television is still blaring, though, so Penny wanders over to turn it off. Without looking up, Grandfather mutters, "What are you doing?"

"Turning off the television, grandfather. It's not good for your eyes."

"Am I watching it, Penelope?"

"No, but…"

He glances up over his spectacles, raising an eyebrow. Penny was not fortunate enough to have inherited his eyes, but her mother had. She thinks they're beautiful, and in her grandfather she can read his intelligence and his zest for life. It's dimmed over the years, which scares her, but his eyes are the part him that hold the most warmth; that say the things he can't say.

"Then turn it back _on_, girl." His voice, as usual, does not raise, but takes on that hard, commanding tone that she has no doubt had the Police Constables quaking in their boots back when he worked with Scotland Yard. She jumps and flicks the television back on, retreating to the kitchen like an injured dog to lick its wounds. She puts away the remains of what had been lunch and wipes down the counter, after which time she deems it safe to wander back in the living room, where Grandfather has flipped the channel. It's on BBC now; World News. Grandfather has never gotten used to there being more than six channels on television, and so mostly switches between the ones he's used to.

"Grandfather?" Penny mutters, feeling meek. Her mother tells her that she's a lot like Molly, her grandmother, but Penny will never know if that's accurate because she never _knew_ her grandmother, and Grandfather never talks about her. She thinks it may be a sore spot, for him. Mum always says that Grandfather lost his best friend the day Grandmother died. When Penny was little, she used to say _Silly mummy, wives are way more important than best friends_. Her mother would smile, strained, and tell her than sometimes they could be the same person.

"Hmm?" He's got his eyes closed, his hands folded as if in prayer. He's done this for as long as Penny can remember. Penny has never been able to figure out whether he does it to aid in thinking, or to do the exact opposite.

"Do you…need anything?"

Grandfather's eyes open and he sighs, pats the arm of his chair. She eases her way over, around the clutter—Grandfather has never kept a clean house and, Penny suspects, never will—and sits down on the arm, tucking her stocking-clad feet between his thigh and the arm. He wraps his arm, thin but warm, around her waist and scoots over, making room for her to slide down the arm so they're half-sharing the chair.

There is silence for a few moments, before Grandfather murmurs, "I don't mean to snap."

"I know."

"I just…I get frustrated, Penelope. You think I don't know what's happening to me, but I do. I _do_ and there's nothing I can do to stop it. And I'm no longer a young man. I haven't been for half my life, now. It hurts. Everything hurts these days, Penelope." He's the only person that calls her Penelope. Secretly, she likes the longer version more than the childhood diminutive she never quite managed to grow out of.

"Do you need some Tylenol?"

He chuckles. It's deep and rich, and it's kind of like a really nice cup of cocoa. "It's not that simple. People aren't made to live for as long as I have; it's as simple as that. These aches and pains are more than any over-the-counter painkiller than quench, unfortunately. They're bone-deep. They're from age and weariness. Of watching people die around me for over a century. Of letting go of dreams."

Penny pillows her head on his shoulder. "But you lived your dream, Grandfather. World's only Consulting Detective, right?"

"You're silly to think that was my only dream, dear."

She doesn't say anything, just purses her lips and tries not to bristle at being called silly. To her surprise, he chuckles again and rubs at her back.

"You're just like her, you know? Your grandmother. I miss that woman." He sighs. "She kept me sane, you know. She was seventeen when I met her, and I twenty-three. She became a nurse. She could have been a doctor, if the times were different. She was smart. It's too bad I never loved her how she deserved."

"I'm sure you loved her enough. You were married, and you had three children."

"Four. We had four. The first one was stillborn. I'll never forget how she cried over that." He rests his temple against her forehead, and like the child she hasn't been for years, she picks at a loose thread on his cardigan. It's rare that he talks to her like this, and she can't figure out why he's talking about Grandmother, when he's never been forthcoming with information about her before. As though he can read her mind, he says, "I'm old, Penelope. Very, very old. I won't live much longer."

"Grandfather, don't talk like that."

"I'm over one-hundred, child. I've lived enough life for two men; do you really think I have much left in me? I've had more than my fair share, and it's time to start thinking about dying." He says it like mum used to say _we should think about heading home_ and it makes tears prickle behind her eyes.

"You can't just _think_ about dying and then do it, Grandfather. That's not how things work."

"You really don't think so?" He chuckles, making her hair flip lazily as the air from his nostrils catches it. "You're so young, Penelope. You've so much to learn. I know it's hard for you to understand, but I've lived a long, full life. I'm not going to die tomorrow. At least, not as far as I know. But soon. I can feel it. It's like a heaviness in your bones. You get tired of the world, Penelope. You can't know what it feels like, and I hope you don't for a long time, but when you get to be as old as me…You start to figure _well, it's time to be carrying on_. You can't stay in one place for too long. Don't think of it as leaving, Penelope, except in the most literal meaning."

"Death is but the next great adventure."

"Quite right. You got that from somewhere, didn't you? Mmm. I've never been good at popular culture references." He sighs. "Besides, I have people to catch up to, where I'm going. I think they've been waiting for me long enough."

"Grandmother?"

"She's among them, yes." He's quiet, contemplative. Penny glances at the television and sees they're doing a story on some injured footballer. She wonders why that's international news. She's pretty sure no one else in the world cares that the star of the Man U team has pulled his Achilles'. The story is almost over when Grandfather says, "I loved your grandmother. She was my best friend; we shared our lives and raised our children in perfect tandem. But I fear I was never in love with her. She was the mother of my children, yet my feelings for her were almost fraternal. Is that disturbing?"

"A bit. But I understand what you mean."

"You can only have one great love in your life, Penelope. And I met that person when I was very young, and they died long before I met your grandmother. Unfortunately, I found great_ obsession_ in my work and I fear I may have neglected her while she was alive."

Penny isn't quite sure she knows what he means by that.

"What is the television saying?"

Penny glances at it and sees the footballer story is over. It takes her a second to comprehend what the story _is_ about, because for a long moment all that is onscreen is a very solemn underwater shot of a algae-covered shipwreck. Then she reads the text, scrolling along the bottom of the screen. _Team in Atlantic attempts to salvage _Titanic_ artifacts for 85th anniversary._

"Something about the _Titanic_. Not sure. They're doing something." She huffs irritably and gets up, intending to turn it off. "I really wonder why they can't let people rest in peace, you know? They've always got to barge in places, dig up stuff. I mean, honestly, don't they understand how many graves they're trampling over looking for…what, looking for _artifacts_? Anything that's been under the ocean that long is pulp." She knows she's babbling, but their conversation made her uncomfortable, and she's prone to babbling when she's uncomfortable.

"Don't turn it off. Turn it up."

Penny's hand changes direction from the power button to the volume control. She would have argued, but Grandfather sounded urgent. It isn't wise to refuse him when he sounds like that.

"…Mister Dimmock, some people are calling you a _grave-robber_. Any response to these accusations?"

The smirking face of the head of the exhibition, a man named Daniel Dimmock, is on television now. His brown hair is whipping in the wind. He appears to be standing on the deck of a ship, obviously the base of the entire operation. There is a long pause between the anchor's question and his reply, most likely because of a shaky long-distance wire connection.

"Well, no one ever called the recovery of the artifacts from King Tut's tomb grave robbery, did they? And my team is taking extraordinary measures to make sure these artifacts are being treated with the utmost care and respect. Look at this picture we found just today." He moves, and the camera pans with him. He directs its attention to a tub of what Penny can only assume is saline, where a piece of parchment lay. A pencil (Or perhaps charcoal; she isn't an artist by any means) drawing of a man. It makes Penny blush horribly, because the man is naked except for a small smile and a chain around his neck. A violin wedged between his shoulder and chin complete the picture, and he seems to be caught in the middle of a movement, stroking the bow across the strings. Penny can practically hear the music. Grandfather used to play before his hands became too arthritic.

"Uhm…Grandfather…" Penny scratches the back of her neck, trying to avoid looking at the picture. It's a little bit embarrassing, staring at that picture with her grandfather in the room.

"Penelope. Get me the phone."

"What? But…"

"The phone, Penelope! And the phonebook; I need this broadcasting station's phone number."

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><p>Anthony Lestrade is not having a good year.<p>

It started in February, when he was approached by a man calling himself Dimmock. The meeting took place outside of his apartment and lasted less than five minutes. All that was said was: "The name's Daniel Isaac Dimmock, DI for short. You're Anthony Lestrade, top of your class at MIT. Degree in mechanics with a focus on robotics. You want a job? Show up here Wednesday, that's next Wednesday."

Anthony spent a long time going back and forth about it, wondering whether he really _should_ show up somewhere completely random on instructions from a stranger. However, he couldn't afford to be choosey about these things; he was just out of college, and had no job to speak of. The fact that the man seemed to know who _he_ was seemed to speak to the fact that it wasn't a random attack. He told himself the man wouldn't have bothered learning so much about him if it was.

Besides, the meeting was to take place in one of the MIT buildings. A school building is an odd place for a murder or rape.

As it turned out, it was the first meeting of an expedition team that, at the time, had a total of five people. Dimmock, three of his friends, and Anthony. They wanted to know whether or not Anthony knew how to operate a ROV which, yeah, he could do. But for what, he wanted to know? Turned out, the name _Titanic_ came into the mix, which is where Anthony became wary. His great-grandfather, Gregory Lestrade, died on that ship, and his entire family went up in arms when the wreck was found.

"Let sleeping dogs lie," his mother likes to say, and Anthony agrees with her.

He was especially wary when they told him it was an _expedition_; one to salvage artifacts for several museums, who wanted to put them on display next year in time for the 85th anniversary. Dimmock turned out to be a historian whom had come to the university hoping to gather a team of new graduates looking for work. Anthony, it seemed, was the first.

Anthony wasn't exactly happy with the plan, but he couldn't turn down a job like that. He called his mom and they argued fiercely over it, her asking him to think about his grandfather and how he would react to it. Calmly, Anthony explained that it was the first chance for work that had come for him since graduation, and he'd be stupid not to take it. She accused him of being a grave robber, setting off to pillage his own ancestor's final resting place, and hung up. They made up a few weeks later, but it hasn't kept Anthony from feeling the ball of dread in his stomach.

A team was gathered remarkably quickly, and they set off at the beginning of June. Icebergs aren't nearly as much of a problem in modern times, but a summer voyage was still preferable by all. No one wanted to end up at the bottom of the ocean beside _Titanic_ when it was all said and done.

It was only once they'd set off that Anthony became aware of the real reason they were setting out to investigate the site. It started when DI called him into his stateroom and sat him down, then held up a picture. A necklace; a large, blue pendant hanging from a delicate chain. There would have been nothing remarkable about it had Anthony not realized it wasn't some gaudy piece of costume jewelry; it was the real deal.

"Have you ever seen this before? And don't say it's the Hope Diamond, because it's not. They're similar but this one is far older, and far more valuable."

"Uh…in that case, no. I'm a robotics engineer, DI, not an archeologist." He raised a disapproving eyebrow and crossed his arms, expecting an explanation promptly. Despite the fact that he was twenty-two, lanky, and all six-foot-two, redheaded inches of him only weighed about one-fifty when sopping wet, he still towered over DI, and could pull off 'intimidating' pretty well.

DI sighed. "The diamond belonged to Louis the Sixteenth. When France fell and Louis lost it all, including his head, the diamond disappeared. Rumor has it, they cut it down, into the oval shape it's in now, and put it on a chain. They called it the Eye of the Sea. See how it's almost black in the middle? Yeah. It's invaluable. Today it would be worth more that the Hope Diamond and the Crown Jewels combined."

Again, Anthony's eyebrows quirked, this time inquiringly. "So? What does that have to do with anything?"

"I tracked the diamond through insurance records. Turns out, it ended up in the hands of a guy named Moriarty. James Moriarty, who gave it to his fiancé, Sherlock Holmes, as an engagement gift. You following?" At Anthony's nod, Dimmock continued, "Moriarty was the heir to some kind of firearms company; the British Winchester, as it were. He had money plus, and somehow the diamond got mixed into his father's assets, only to be given to James by the old man when he managed to get his hands on the honey pot of the Holmes family, Sherlock.

"What Daddy didn't know that James _did _was that the Holmes family was facing a really tough financial situation, and had no real male head. Sigur Holmes was majorly depressed, had been his whole life, and ended up putting a gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger in 1910. It caused a major fallout within their company, which mostly produced medical and laboratory supplies. Mycroft, the older son, was only twenty-four at the time, and not ready to take the entire Holmes Corporation under his wing. Besides, the kid was basically shit at business. He was a politician."

"Mycroft Holmes? The Prime Minister?"

"Mmhm."

"He was on the _Titanic_, wasn't he?" Mycroft Holmes was a very prominent figure in British history, somewhere among the ranks of Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. You couldn't watch a biography on him without it at least mentioning that he was a _Titanic_ survivor.

"Yes. Along with his mother, Violet Holmes, and his younger brother, Sherlock. James' fiancé. Now, it wasn't all that rare back then for prominent families encountering hard times to marry off their children. The Holmeses didn't have any girls, but they did have Sherlock, whom was seventeen and considered groomable."

"Groomable?"

"As in, they figured they could give their youngest son up to be turned into some kind of submissive pseudo-housewife. They called it feminization. In return, they got Moriarty's money and his financial security. Sherlock was old enough to be considered available, but young enough to be feminized and besides; he was the youngest son. They were practically as worthless as daughters, back then."

"Dimmock! These are _people_ you're talking about; and dead people, too! Have some respect!"

"That's how it _was_, Anthony! I'm just speaking fact. It's disturbing, yeah, but it's how things worked back then, alright? Things were way different. Anyway, I think the necklace must have been part of the feminization. A kind of, wear it and remember who you belong to thing. But the thing is, Sherlock Holmes died on _Titanic_. And when Moriarty got off _Carpathia_, he didn't have the necklace with him. If he had, it could have gotten him out of a lot of trouble. He lost everything in the stock market crash and he ended up doing the same thing as Sigur Holmes. He ate a pistol in 1932."

Anthony stared at him, still trying to figure out why Dimmock was telling it all to him. Then his eyes widened as realization sunk in. The man was no fucking _historian_; he was a goddamned treasure-hunter! He'd come on this trip to violate the dead for a gemstone. Anger flared within him and fists formed at his sides. "DI. This damned necklace better not be the only reason we're doing all of this."

"No, it's not the _only_ reason. It's just the major contributing factor. The donations of a lot of partners are hinging on us finding this necklace, or else proving that it's been lost. Problem is there are two dozen places it could be, including around the neck of the dead Sherlock Holmes, who by now would be part of the sand at the bottom of the sea floor. _But_, it could also be in Holmes' stateroom, Moriarty's stateroom, the cargo hold. Lots of places. We're still on an archeological mission, but we need to focus on _this_."

"I don't like this, DI. I don't like this at all."

"I know, kid, and I shoulda told you sooner. But I needed you and, to be honest, you're too good of a person. I knew you wouldn't do it if I told you what we had to do."

Anthony sighed, sitting down in Dimmock's office chair and rubbing his face. "This is…too much, Dimmock. You realize that you lured me here on false pretenses and, theoretically, I could sue the fuck out of you, right?" He glanced up, his brown eyes meeting Dimmock's navy blue. He didn't look nearly as apologetic as Anthony would have liked. "But you're right. I'm too good of a person. It's at times like these I wish I wasn't." He sat back, crossing his arms as DI sat on the desk, letting the photograph flutter onto a pile of papers on the floor. Anthony stroked his lower lip, squeezing it between his fingers unconsciously as he thought. "Let's say we didn't look for it. I mean, if we did, we could be here months. We don't have supplies for _months_ of excavation. Say we just told them we looked all the possible places and didn't see it."

"I wish we could. But the partners are thorough. They've sent people along with us."

"Dammit."

So here they are: the middle of July and DI's freaking out because they still haven't found the Eye of the Sea. They checked the last likely place, Moriarty's stateroom, and found the safe. The necklace was not in the safe. All that _was_ there were several handfuls of sodden pulp that had at one time been paper bills, and a parchment sketchbook. Anthony's considering banging his head on one of the monitors trained on the tub of saline water where the sketchbook is being cleaned.

They're never going to find the God-forsaken necklace.

"DI."

Dimmock looks up from the blueprints he's poring over, _Titanic_'s blue prints, and squints at Anthony. After the hour they spent under the ocean earlier, his eyes are slow to adjust to the intense light of the examination room. "What?"

"Listen to me. We. Aren't. Going. To. Find. It. It's a needle in a hay stack. We've looked everywhere. Unless we comb the sand, we're _never_ going to get hold of it."

"You don't think I've realized that?" hisses DI. He stands up and glares at Anthony, whom stands his ground. "I'm not an idiot, Anthony. But we've got to at least _look_ like we're doing something. These people the partners sent along are practically _spies_, Anthony. We have no way of knowing what they know, and if we give up now all of our funds are going to be retracted, and we're not gonna get paid!"

"Don't you think this has gone far enough, Dimmock?" He speaks quietly. The walls have ears.

DI doesn't get a chance to answer, because at that moment he happens to look down at the monitor against which Anthony is leaning. They're cleaning one of the drawings from the parchment sketchbook, and as the muck washes off, it reveals the delicate features of a man. It's not his face DI is focusing on, Anthony can tell. He can tell because he's pretty sure they're staring at the same thing. The oval pendant resting on the man's clavicle.

"That's Sherlock Holmes," whispers DI. "I have seen pictures and that _has got_ to be…Sherlock Holmes…" He looks over at the research technician who is gently, tediously clearing the picture of the grime it's accumulated during eighty-four years at the bottom of the ocean, and says, "Clean off the bottom right corner. I want to see if there's a date."

The technician, Anthony things her name is Bianca or Brianna, obliges, clearing the mud from the proffered edge, and lifts it slightly out of the water for DI's perusal. From the historian's expression, Anthony knows he's found something.

In the bottom right-hand corner are two scrawlings; the messy signature of the artist, a J and something that might be a W, and _yes,_ there's a date: _4/14/12._

"_Titanic_ sunk just after midnight on April fifteenth," DI says, as though Anthony and everyone else on the ship don't know that. "That means this drawing was done the same day _Titanic_ hit the iceberg. Holmes was wearing the necklace when the ship sunk."

Anthony honestly doesn't know whether that's good or bad.

* * *

><p>They have an interview with BBC at two, and then DI disappears, leaving Anthony to speculate and ponder the recent events on his own. He's looking over one of the ROVs, making sure everything is in working order, when a research assistant appears at his elbow and presents him with the phone. Anthony thanks him, thinking it must be one of the onshore preservationists with a question about a certain artifact. Instead, on the other end is the voice of a man that certainly is too old to be working in the lab in Newfoundland.<p>

"This is Anthony Lestrade."

"Hello, Mister Lestrade. My name is Watson. I have a few questions about one of the artifacts you uncovered today. Specifically the drawing."

"Uhm…okay."

"Do you know who the man in the picture is, Mister Lestrade?"

It's almost out of Anthony's mouth to say _Of course, it's Sherlock Holmes_. However, they don't have confirmation yet and it will be several days before Dimmock can have the proper photographs airlifted here. For some stupid reason, the man didn't think to bring them with him. In order to save their necks incase the drawing turns out to _not_ be of Sherlock Holmes, he says, "Uh…well, Mister Watson, we have our theories. Do you believe you know who the drawing is of?"

"I, too, have my theories, Mister Lestrade." The tone is almost teasing, and it's the first time on this whole expedition that Anthony has allowed himself to hope. This man knows something; Anthony knows it like he knows the sky is blue. Agonized, he waits for Watson to continue speaking. "I was wondering. Have you found the Eye of the Sea?"

"I…Mister Watson, how do you…?"

"I think it would be more beneficial to your particular cause if I informed you that my legal name is Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. The man in your drawing is me, Mister Lestrade."

* * *

><p>"Absolutely im-fucking-possible. Sherlock Holmes died on <em>Titanic<em> when he was seventeen. There's no way he's alive; there's no record of him ever arriving in New York, and Moriarty himself said that he never saw Holmes again. Your man's a goddamned liar."

"I know, it doesn't seem possible, but he _knows_, DI. I don't know how, but he does! Look, the only people that know about the Eye of the Sea are supposed to be on this ship, or in the lab in Newfoundland, right? Or one of the God-forsaken sponsors. But this is an old man living in Sussex; I really doubt he would have any of this information if he didn't have first-hand experience."

"No, Anthony, you can't believe this guy. His name is Sherlock Watson. Does that ring any bells? It might not to you, but back in the thirties and forties the guy was huge in London. He was a detective; the best in the world, people called him. God only knows what the guy learned when he was snooping in other people's business all those years. I don't care what you say, Anthony, it can't be him. Sherlock Holmes would be over a hundred by now, if he was alive.

"He turned 101 in January, he says."

"Okay, so he's _really fucking old_. But that doesn't change the fact that he's a goddamned liar."

"But Dimmock! _Why would he lie_? He's got no reason to. Think about it. He wouldn't get anything out of it. It's not like we're offering a reward or anything, or that he'll get any sort of recognition out of it. If he really is Sherlock Holmes, it won't matter. The Holmes Corporation died years ago, Mycroft Holmes is long dead; so is James Moriarty. There's literally no one alive who would care if Sherlock Holmes came back from the dead."

"Dammit, Anthony, don't look at me like that."

"_DI._"

"Oh _fine_, for God's sake, bring him in! But the travel expenses are coming out of _your_ final paycheck, Lestrade. When this guy turns out to be some insane old coot, don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

><p>They have to fly to Halifax, then catch a helicopter to the site where the ship, the <em>USS Doyle<em>, is anchored above the _Titanic_ wreck. Penny was very reluctant at first, and roped her mother into helping her convince Grandfather not to go, but he was determined. He would survive the trip, he said, if customs didn't haggle him too much and the ride wasn't too bumpy. Penny was not so sure either of those requirements would be fulfilled, and told Grandfather so several times, but he just kept saying, "Life is nothing without a litter danger, my dear."

So they went. The helicopter is loud and not the most pleasant thing, but the ride is only an hour. The _Doyle_ appears in the windshield, and Penny starts to bundle Grandfather up, wrapping his old, charcoal grey great coat around him and settling his suitcase in his lap. He's traveled light; he always does. They'll only be here for a few days. Long enough for Grandfather to tell his story to the excavation crew and look at a few artifacts for him.

It bothers her that she never knew he was a _Titanic_ survivor until they by chance saw that news program. The fact that Grandfather may have died without telling anyone his story bothers her even more. She's not sure why he decided to keep it from everyone. She doesn't even know what the story _is_, because he refused to tell her before they got to the ship.

The entire situation is utterly befuddling.

They touch down on the deck of the _Doyle_, Penny hopping out first with the assistance of one of the crewmen on the chopper. There are two men waiting for them on deck. One is brunette, about her height. She recognizes him as Dimmock, the man who did the television interview the day she and Grandfather saw the story. The other is taller and ginger. He's American too, if his accent is anything to go by, and he introduces himself as Lestrade; Anthony Lestrade.

The one condition upon which Grandfather's trip to the ship hinges on is the requirement that he go in his wheelchair. If Mum is to be believed, Grandfather has not been on a boat in _her_ living memory, which probably means Grandfather hasn't been on a boat since 1912. She doesn't like the idea of a 101-year-old man having to gather his sealegs, and so demanded he stay in his wheelchair, at least until they get inside and here's less of a risk of him falling off the side of the boat.

Grandfather called her worries _silly_, but she stood firm until he relented and agreed to her condition.

Thus, the four crewmembers lower Grandfather and his one, miniscule suitcase onto the deck. Grandfather gripes the whole way, back straight and arms crossed to show just how _not_ crippled he is. Penny rolls her eyes and shoos the crewmember holding the handles of Grandfather's chair away, saying she is more than capable of pushing him. As the chopper shuts down and the noise decreases, Dimmock introduces himself to Grandfather and begins to lead them inside.

"We're very glad you could come, Mister Holmes. Er. Watson."

"Call me Sherlock, Mister Dimmock."

"Um. Okay. Your staterooms are this way."

It doesn't take them long at all to get settled, and half an hour later Anthony Lestrade appears in the doorway to Grandfather's stateroom. He leans against the doorway, smiling at Penny. Lestrade is not an unattractive man, and so she blushes and looks down.

"Are you finding your staterooms comfortable?"

"Oh yes. The accommodations are very nice." Grandfather, true to form, doesn't even grace Lestrade with eye contact as he continues to stare out the porthole behind Penny's head. He gestures to her. "This is my granddaughter and caretaker, Penelope Watson."

"Anderson, Grandfather. My last name is Anderson."

Grandfather sighs and grits his teeth. "I _begged_ your mother to change your last name. Pleaded with her."

Penny sighs and glances back at Anthony. "We, uh, met back on deck. But hi, again."

Anthony smiles. "Hi, Penelope. Penelope? Do you go by Penny, or…?"

"You can call me that…if you want. My friends do."

"Alright."

"What about you? Are you, ah, Tony?"

"Uh, nah. No. Just call me Anthony."

"Are you two done flirting?" Grandfather _is_ looking towards him now, giving Anthony an investigatory once-over that Penny recognizes all too well from when she was in high school. It's the look that sent most of her adolescent boyfriends running for the hills. For his part, Anthony shuffles awkwardly and gains a red flush to his neck. She's not sure whether she should be embarrassed or angry. She settles on a mixture of both.

"Grandfather! I am _not_."

For the first time in a while, Grandfather smirks and Penny realizes he was kidding. It's so hard to tell with Grandfather, especially since his humor is so deadpan and he hardly ever uses it. Nevertheless, Penny is a little less angry and the tension in the room lifts. Penny can see Anthony's shoulders straighten when it does. Suddenly going a bit soft, Grandfather murmurs, "Lestrade. Related to Gregory Lestrade?"

Anthony's eyes widen. His eyes are huge and brown, like that of a puppy's. "Yes. He was my great-grandfather. He died on _Titanic_. Did you…know him?"

Solemnly, Grandfather nods. "Yes, I did. Your grandfather was a good man, Anthony. I daresay I owe him my life."

For a moment, Anthony is very quiet, taking it all in. Penny can only imagine what's going through his mind: that her Grandfather has literally _met_ one of his ancestors has got to be a lot to process. Eventually, he says, "Thank you. I'll…tell my parents that. They'll be really grateful." Awkwardly, he scratches the back of his neck and mumbles, "Is there…something I can get for you?"

Grandfather nods. "Yes. I would like to see my drawing."

Anthony nods. "Sure, sure. Uhm, this way."

They follow Anthony down several corridors to a dark, cool room which appears to be the storage room where the recovered artifacts are kept. The team is already in there, and Anthony introduces them. Dimmock shoves Anthony aside, which Penny isn't sure she likes, but soon forgets when Grandfather is lead to the tub of saline where the picture is being kept. Anthony, quietly so as not to disturb the research team and Grandfather, explains that they have to keep the paper submerged because, after all those years in the ocean, it would crumble if it were to dry out. Penny nods along with the explanation while keeping a careful eye trained on Grandfather.

He looks sad. Very, deeply sad as he looks over the rim of the tub and at the picture. Something else too—wistful? She doesn't know, and it feels as though maybe she shouldn't be looking at him when he's like this. It just seems too private. A strong man losing his composure.

"All the artifacts on this table are what we found in staterooms 221 and 223. The room your fiancé was in, and the room you shared with your brother…if I remember correctly." Dimmock gestures to the long table upon which the saline solution and drawing sit.

"Mmhm." Grandfather glances over it all, and reaches out a hand, to pick up what at first appears to be a small mirror. Then she realizes it's a magnifying glass. He holds it up to his eyes, sighs, and mutters, "This was mine. It was a gift, from my mother." He turns it over, and reveals an engraving on the handle. It's hard to make out on the waterlogged wood, but Penny realizes it reads something like: _Keep your head up in the face of adversity. With love, VH._

"What does that mean?" Penny murmurs.

"Well, it was an engagement gift. You work it out." Despite himself, Anthony titters out a laugh. Penny glances at him, furrowing her brows as she does some math.

"You didn't meet grandmother until 1917, Grandfather…"

"I know." He takes a deep breath. "I was engaged before, you know. And don't go telling your mother this, Penelope. I never told her or her brothers, or even your grandmother, although I wanted to many times."

"Did she die, on _Titanic_? Is that the person who died before you met Grandmother?"

"No, Penelope. His name was James. James Moriarty."

"A man?" Penny blurts, without thinking. Then blushes. "I mean, there's not anything…I mean, it's just…"

"James Moriarty was not a man. He was a spider. The bane of my existence for the six months I knew him. I was practically given to him, as his own personal _toy_ to play with." Grandfather's tone is hard, resentful. "I was all but sold, by my family to his, into a loveless marriage which required I be feminized. It was…mortifying and degrading, and were I not close to the end of my life I would not be telling this story at all. But I am, and I feel someone must hear the story. His story deserves to be told."

"Moriarty's?" Anthony asks in surprise.

Grandfather chuckles and shakes his head. It's not a warm chuckle; it's despondent, as though he's laughing in spite of himself. "No. Not Moriarty. My story is about the man whose life was irreversibly entangled with mine, those five days in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. He died, and I didn't. Do you know what it's like to live over eighty years with your life tied to that of a dead man's?"

"No. I can't say I do." Dimmock sits down, and they all get themselves comfortable. This will be a long story, they can tell. Dimmock flips on a recorder and sets it on the table beside the saline tub. "So can you tell us about it, Sherlock?"

Grandfather takes a deep breath, bracing his elbows on the arm rests of his chair and bringing his hands up to rest in front of his face. It's that pose again. He stares over the tips of his fingers at the assembled crew, some of which are still working while subtly trying to listen in, and others who have blatantly dropped their work and migrated nearer. He says, "It's been eighty-four years."

"Just tell us what you can remember."

"Do you want to hear this or not, Mister Dimmock?"

Dimmock sits back, chastised, and gestures for Grandfather to continue.

"You'll do well not to interrupt, Mister Dimmock. I'm not a man who likes to repeat myself." A pause, another breath, and then, "It's been eighty-four years, and yet I still remember it down to the last detail. The pattern on the carpets, the exact shade of the paint on the walls. It was a brand-new ship, a blank canvas. And yet, at the same time, it was a sensory overload. People boarding, people waving from the docks. They called it the ship of dreams. For some, it was."

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes:<strong> I think I was a bit too dependant on the movie dialogue at the end there. I'm trying to separate it as much as possible, while still keeping the integrity of the main plot. Mostly, this was to help me get over a very bad case of writer's block, and I think I have, a bit, so it could be a while before this is updated. Just bear with me; I've got a lot going on. This was also a stress-reliever, because I actually have ACT's next week, and well as MME's (Michigan Merit Exam, for those of you not from these parts.) and I've been having an anxiety attack for the better part of a week.

I hope you guys liked.


	2. Chapter One: Southampton

**Chapter One: Southampton**

* * *

><p>For the first time since he was eight or nine years old, Sherlock was grateful for the existence of his brother. Mycroft, when they'd all piled into the car for the long, tedious drive to Southampton from London, had quickly inserted himself in the seat next to Sherlock, leaving his fiancé, James, to sit across next to their mother. Strangely enough, Mycroft had not smirked and preened, waiting for his brother's grudging thanks; instead he had stared out the window behind their mother's head, almost as though he didn't want Sherlock to acknowledge his deed. So Sherlock did not.<p>

Instead, he leaned his elbow upon the door of the car and commenced staring listlessly out, at the world passing him by. Who knew when he would next see London, if ever? The Moriarty Group had their headquarters in Dublin, of all places, and he would be expected to live on the family estate there, in Ireland, once he was married to James. Undoubtedly he'd be kept on a very short leash, only allowed on his own for certain distances, and then only for certain reasons. If he wanted to go visit his family, he would have to be accompanied by his husband or his brother. Trying to pass himself off as any regular man was out of the question; his hair had grown too long during his classes in France, not by his own choice of course, and his wardrobe no longer reflected the masculinity of his brother or fiancé. Instead the fabrics were all soft and delicate, those used for women's clothing, although the styles were still basically male. They weren't turning him into a woman; just making him act like one.

However, if this practice continued, Sherlock didn't have to try hard to imagine himself walking around in a petticoat in the near future. The thought made him shiver with dread.

James was not pleased with being stuck cattycorner to him. He had tried reaching across Mycroft several times, but all he managed to contact was Mycroft's forearm or umbrella handle, and on one particularly amusing occasion his thigh. Sherlock had been staring out of his peripheral vision when that happened, and had tried to stifle a smirk as Mycroft glared at James and Mummy tittered, shaking her head.

His disgruntlement, of course, could easily be attributed to the fact that Sherlock had been away in France for three months, being feminized. The last time he saw James was a few days after their engagement, when they awkwardly embraced (His mother was watching; he wasn't able to deny James the physical contact) before Sherlock boarded a train bound for Paris. Once there, he was subjected to months of rigorous classes behind closed doors at his family's estate. His instructor, an elderly woman whom insisted on being referred to as Madam Beaumont, took a little too much glee in his classes. Probably the victim of too much misogyny and eager at the prospect of a little vengeance against the 'stronger' side of the species. He mentioned this to her, to her utter indignation.

"Your role to your husband will be to be seen, not heard," she said, on many occasions, "which means that you will have to put these silly observations—" she pointedly ignored his grumble of, '_Deductions_,' "—of yours to a rest. They will be unbecoming in the social circles you will be revolving in, and will reflect badly upon your husband. Everything—absolutely everything—you do will be reflected upon your husband. So tread carefully, because your husband may not be forgiving."

Slowly, she taught Sherlock how to assume his new role. How he was to behave and conduct himself for the rest of his life.

"You will wear your hair long, to your jaw at least but not so far as your shoulders. When at formal events you will tie it back. You will wear coats with tails that reach to your knees, and cuffs with silk ends. If you are taller than your husband, you will sit when he stands. Whenever possible, sit below him when he sits, and when walking you will walk on his non-dominant side. You will not talk to other men without your husband near, and the conversations are to be kept strictly polite. You are to be seen, not heard. When your husband dismisses you, you will go. You will not try to listen to his conversations. You will wait for him to tell you of his affairs, rather than asking after them yourself. Of course, you're obligated to tell him of yours whether he asks or not. When your husband summons you, you will go to him, whether it is to the study or the parlor or the bedroom."

It was awful, degrading, and more than once Sherlock found himself with the urge to throw his engagement ring out the window, sheer off his hair at the roots and get himself lost in Paris. Change his name, dye his hair when it grew back in. Live life a poor vagabond but at least _free_.

Then he thought of his mother. The woman who birthed him, who sheltered him for seventeen years. The woman who, through lack of any other option, married him off to James Moriarty. Without him, she would be lost. Mycroft would never be able to take over the company, no matter how hard they tried; he was a politician, and a politician trying to run a business was like the blind leading the blind.

Her favorite phrase to utter, when he voiced his protests, was, "Do you wish me to languish?" which would effectively put an end to his arguing. He just could not deny his mother anything, even when he knew she did not have his best interests at heart. Even when he knew she had always resented him, from the moment her unintended pregnancy had been discovered. He had been once disappointment after another to his mother; not being born a girl, not getting along with his father or his brother, not playing nice with her friends' children. Sometimes he thought all of it was just payback.

Other times, he looked at his mother and saw an aging, desperate woman, and knew it was as much a sacrifice for her as it was for him. Dignity was something precious to Frenchwomen, and he knew that marrying off her youngest son to a man was degrading.

James rolled down the window and lit a fag. Sherlock wilted against his own window. What he wouldn't give for a cigarette.

Just as he thought this, he felt Mycroft slip something into his trouser pocket. Smirked. Thank God for big brothers, even if they were a pain ninety percent of the time.

"I can see the docks," Mummy commented offhandedly, in French, and James frowned. Sherlock knew his mother could speak nearly perfect Oxford English when she wanted to—it was just a matter of wanting to. More often than not, she conveyed thoughts only meant for her sons in French. Unfortunately for James, Mummy did not have many thoughts meant for him. Sherlock wasn't even sure whether or not James knew his mother could speak English.

"Is that the ship?" Mycroft asked. He said it in English, because while James would accept Violet Holmes' nonexistent language barrier as long as he had reason to, he knew Mycroft and Sherlock were educated in England and had no reason to speak in anything other than English, with company about.

"I believe so," James said. Mummy merely gave a quiet grunt.

"It doesn't look so large," Sherlock muttered, just to be contrary. "I've seen bigger."

"Impossible," James sighed. He was easily irritated by Sherlock's attempts to play dumb, partially because he knew Sherlock was just doing it to _be_ annoying. One thing that Sherlock could not fault his fiancé on was his intelligence. Mummy had made the right choice, where that applied. "It's the largest boat afloat."

"Mmm." It was Sherlock's turn to grunt, and he fell silent, comforting himself with the feel of Mycroft's cigarettes in his pocket and fantasies about how to slip away unnoticed so he could smoke a few of them in peace.

The crowd at the docks was enormous, and mostly populated by immigrants. Entire extended families, it seemed, had come out to see off relatives and watch history be made as _Titanic_ set off on her maiden voyage. Children shrieked and giggled, ignoring the irritated and weary commands of their mothers. Some young women held screaming babies. Men bellowed. Mummy sniffed derisively at the masses, while Sherlock tried to focus his attention on one thing, instead of letting the influx of information overwhelm him. His temples throbbed.

The driver of their car attempted to navigate them further into the crowd, closer to the gangway, but the slow, stop-and-go movement eventually irritated Mycroft, and he commanded the driver to stop the car. Mycroft had always preferred horse-drawn carriage, and was secretly hoping the fad of automobiles would die out. At least people moved for horses, he said.

Following Mycroft's order, the car came to a complete stop, between a luggage trolley drawn by a pair of roan-patterned Percherons and the Daimler driven by James' valet-cum-henchman, Sebastian Moran. Sherlock immediately reached for the door handle, eager to be out of the car. Mummy placed her hand over the handle before he could grasp it, shook her head marginally, and nodded towards James.

For a moment, Sherlock considered slapping her hand away. Fantasized about wrenching open the door, hurdling himself bodily from the car, and diving into the throng, letting it absorb and cradle him. Wondered whether Mummy would scream, yelling his name with its French pronunciation like she did when he was a child getting into trouble. Would she beg him to come back, like a worried mother? A mother watching her child run away from her? Would there be heartbreak in her voice? Or would she turn to Mycroft, scream, "Do something! He's getting away!" as if he was an escaping prisoner, instead of her son.

James would probably compel his henchman to chase. No matter, Sherlock fathomed he could easily outrun the other man. Sebastian may have been stronger and military-trained (He fought in the last Boer War, from what Sherlock understood) but Sherlock was faster, and less weighed down by the extra bulk of muscle. He was also better at slipping into small places, consolidating his entire body into remarkably small niches and staying that way for long periods of time.

He could hide, he decided, in the pub they had passed driving in. The one where the men were playing poker in the window. He could trade Mycroft's cigarettes and the money he had for a hat and overcoat, wait until _Titanic_ launched and the crowd dissipated, then make his way back to London on the back of a lorry.

All of this sped through his mind in the two seconds he spent staring at his mother's long, elegant hand curled over the door handle—the only thing separating him from freedom. Then, disgusted, he sat back and dropped his hands into his lap. Glared, clutched his fingers together, and watched out of his periphery as James descended from the car, followed by Mycroft. The door then closed in his brother's wake, leaving him alone with his mother, if only for a moment while they made their way through the crowd to the other side. Mummy tracked their progress with only her eyes. They alighted on Sherlock's for a moment, mother staring into the eyes she had given her son. Barely moving her lips, she said, "Behave, Sherlock."

Instead of gracing her with a response, Sherlock gritted his teeth and, when James opened the car door, clambered out of the carriage without accepting his offered hand.

James, undeterred, rested a hand on his back. Sherlock bristled. James said, "Sherlock, do you want your coat? It's going to be cold tonight, and I intend to have a walk around the deck."

"Fine." Sherlock had not meant to leave his coat in the car. In his agitation, it had slipped his mind to retrieve it.

As Mycroft and Mummy stood and made inane conversation about the ship, Sherlock navigated towards the water's edge, to stand beside one of the enormous bollards lining the pier. Contemplated jumping in the water. There were two meters of space between the ship and the deck. It would be so easy to walk in; fall the five feet into the water below.

He closed his eyes and listened to the water lapping at the metal of the ship's hull, and the wood of the dock. His feet were just barely over the edge of the dock, no solid ground under his toes. Lean forward, it would be so easy…

"Here you are, darling."

Sherlock spun around and suppressed a growl, instead reaching out to grab his charcoal grey coat from James' hands.

James was three inches shorter than Sherlock, but his commanding presence made him seem taller. He was also slightly fuller-bodied, more masculine. Next to him—next to many people—Sherlock appeared too thin and almost fragile, despite the height difference. Everyone who so much as glanced at them would know what they were.

"Thank you."

He turned back towards the ship and crossed his arms over the mound of his folded jacket. Waited for the sounds of James walking away. Instead, James inched closer.

Almost pleasantly, he said, "Sherlock?" to which Sherlock grunted. Suddenly, James' fingers were at his waist, pressing far too hard. In his ear, James said, "I'm getting tired of his game you're playing, Sherlock. I've had enough now."

"That's unfortunate, darling. I do so enjoy a good game." He smirked to himself. It was short-lived, though, because James' hand immediately tightened again. The smirk was lost in a wince of pain and a barely-suppressed gasp.

"You have been deliberately making a fool out of me, Sherlock. That is not a game I'm willing to play." James' breath was hot on his neck. Sherlock could smell his soap and cologne. He hated the smell of it; it made him want to gag.

"Oh?" It came out through gritted teeth.

"You like games?" This he said lightly, airily as if he were actually inquiring after Sherlock's interests. As if they had been hurtled back four months and were still doing that sham of a courtship Sherlock's mother had forced him into, the dance of faux romance. When Sherlock did not answer his inquiry, James squeezed Sherlock's skin almost too painfully. Sherlock could not suppress his gasp. "Answer me, Sherlock."

"Yes," Sherlock snarled, trying and failing to wrench himself away from James. Ground out, "I like _games_."

"Then you'll like my game. The rules are very simple. You make me happy, and…I'll make you happy in return." His hand moved, hidden by the fabric of Sherlock's long suit jacket, and squeezed his arse. Sherlock flinched involuntarily and ferociously.

"If you think that will make me happy, you deserve less credit than I gave you."

"Well, that's not the only thing a man can give his partner, is it?" That hated word. _Partner_. Not even a husband, no. The feminized man was never the husband. He was the partner. "I know you get bored, Sherlock. Desperately bored." His voice, right next to Sherlock's ear, curled like silk. His tenor invaded Sherlock's mind, made a nest there, tried to hypnotize him. He squeezed his eyes closed against the onslaught. "I can help you, if you let me."

His head turned fractionally. Damn James Moriarty. Trust him to be the only person to recognize Sherlock's fears and use them against him. "How do you figure?"

"I'm like you, you know. I know the pain of no stimulation. Of boredom so suffocating that you can't bear it. I can promise your life with me won't be boring. I owe you that much, don't you think?" Sherlock did not have to look to know he was smiling wickedly. This was not James Moriarty, young executive of a company given to him much too soon by a dying father and a brother who was too sloshed to care. Not James who smiled at his mother, put on a show for her benefit. Not the benevolent young man everyone thought he was. This was James Moriarty, finally revealing what lay behind those bright eyes; too bright to belong to what he pretended he was. This was James Moriarty putting all of his cards on the table.

For some reason, Sherlock found himself rather pleased.

"I could jump, you know," said Sherlock. "Right off this pier. Everyone would think you pushed me."

"Ah, but you won't. You're intrigued now. Wondering where this great game will take us. You won't cheat; you're a fair player, Sherlock. No, you won't jump."

Damn him again, because he was right. Sherlock exhaled slowly, his arms tightening around his coat, and murmured, "Yes, fine. Okay."

James wrapped both arms around him and squeezed, and it was almost loving. Sherlock felt him smile against his neck. "Thank you. Now, your mother and brother are watching. Turn around and kiss me. We've just been having a nice little chat, understand? Don't tell them anything, especially not Mycroft." The way he said the elder Holmes' name was the way some people spoke blasphemy. Sherlock was under no illusion that there was love lost between James and Mycroft.

"Fine."

So he turned around, let James pull him in and kiss him (His lips were soft and his breath pleasant, but he was also cold and Sherlock wondered if selling your soul to the devil made your internal body temperature drop) then followed him back over to where his mother and Mycroft were waiting.

"He needed some air, it would seem," James said, the amicable, if a little pretentious tone firmly back in place. "Can't blame him. These immigrants don't exactly smell like roses." He narrowed his eyes at a small family consisting of woman, man, and small child of indiscernible gender walking past him. "Filthy."

Sherlock sighed, Mycroft twitched a bit, and Mummy merely nodded in agreement. Mummy always seemed to forget that, before their grandfather, the Holmes family had been just as poor as many of the immigrants milling about on the pier. Mummy's family, the Guillorys, could trace their wealth back to Louis XVI. Sigur Holmes had never let his sons forget where they came from. Mummy, not so much.

Sebastian Moran approached from where he had been directing a porter on which bags to take for checking. Sebastian was a blonde man of about thirty-five, firm of build and slightly taller than Sherlock. He was an imposing figure, and for good reason. He was apparently an excellent marksman and had training in several versions of hand-to-hand combat. However, when James Moriarty told him to roll over, he flopped on his back and wagged his tail. The man was far too enamored of Sherlock's fiancé. From what Sherlock had seen, the regard was not returned.

James Moriarty saw people in two categories, in the never-ending game of chess in which he was King: pieces on his board, and his opponents. Sebastian was a Bishop, perhaps even a Knight. Sherlock had yet to figure out if he was a pawn or an opponent.

Or perhaps he was a Queen. The most important piece of all, and pivotal in protecting the King. Helping him to win.

"We could have been here hours sooner if Sherlock hadn't been dawdling," Mummy remarked, raking her eyes over him with a raised eyebrow. This morning, Sherlock had been determined to fake sick, stay in his bedroom and ignore everyone's attempts to draw him out. That had not worked, as with one glance Mycroft had determined him not to be sick at all, and dragged him bodily out of his room and down the stairs.

"I wasn't feeling well, Mummy," Sherlock insisted.

She merely sighed, as if she was so put-upon, and turned. She looped her arm through Mycroft's and started off. Sherlock and James followed, arms linked in much the same way (Sherlock's right arm through his left) followed by Sebastian, and Mummy's maid, Mrs. Hudson. Mrs. Hudson was a woman in her sixties whom had been working for Mummy since she married Sigur Holmes twenty-six years ago. She was a kind old woman, and to be honest Sherlock had more fond memories of Mrs. Hudson than he did his own mother. Mrs. Hudson had been trusted with several of Mummy's belongings which she deemed too important to be handled by porters.

As they climbed the gangway, Sherlock stared at the ship, its bible black exterior immobile and imposing. He couldn't believe he was letting this happen to himself. Couldn't believe he had become so complacent as to allow this mockery of a marriage to come to its logical conclusion. He shook with rage at himself, although James obviously thought the rage was directed at him.

As they boarded the ship, all Sherlock could hear was the screaming inside his own head, harmonizing with the blowing of the whistle.

* * *

><p><em>It was like suffocating. Like seeing the end of your life and knowing it was imminent. I wanted to run away, wanted to hide. I couldn't stand the idea that my last days before the ceremony that was going to end my life as I knew it would be spent on a steel vessel in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.<em>

_I didn't care how extravagant and lavish it was. I didn't care that the woods were cherries and mahoganies. I didn't care how good the food was or how nice the accommodations were. To me, it was no different than La Amastad. A slave ship masquerading as something it wasn't._

_In those moments, I hated everything. I hated my family, I hated the ship. I hated the way people stared at me. I hated British peerage. I hated the entirety of polite society. Maybe even the entire world. My hate was boundless and toxic. It may have consumed me. I thank God every day that it didn't. That he didn't allow it to._

* * *

><p>A king each of diamonds, hearts, and clubs, a ten of diamonds, and a four of spades. All things considered, not a bad hand. Had the potential to be a <em>very<em> good hand. But John Watson could not depend upon potential and chance. This was the last hand, and it was winner take all. How it would devolve from a rather laid-back game into such a deathly serious situation was lost on him, but stranger things had happened around a poker table, and John was no stranger to what gambling did to men.

The two men across from him were muscular men, about the same age. Swedish nationals, John could only assume, given their names were Sven and Olaf. Although, they could have been just about any Scandinavian nationality. Mike, however, assured him that the language they were speaking was Swedish, and John had no choice but to believe him. Back about four years ago, Mike had a Swedish girlfriend and learned all the Swedish he could. If either out of the two of them would know Swedish from Norwegian or Danish, it would be Mike.

Mike, next to him, was sweating like a pig while glancing between his cards, the pot, and their opponents. Mike had absolutely no poker face to speak of, and had John known this game would get so serious, he wouldn't have taken the chance of playing with Mike in tow. John could tell just by looking at him that his hand was bad, and he could only assume the Swedes could too. It was all up to John, then.

He had known Mike since their time at Bart's together, studying to become surgeons. Mike had graduated med school, but he taught instead of practice. It wasn't a bad choice. John hadn't really thought the man had it in him to become a surgeon. John, on the other hand, succeeded and began practicing. Went on to join the army, got stationed in India. Got in the way of a group of Indians and Pakistanis.

Got shot.

That was October of 1910. He had quickly realized that his army pension was nowhere near enough to support himself in London. So he took to the continent, traveling from country to country, city to city. Mostly he stayed in youth hostels, using his meager pension to pay for the temporary lodgings until he got tired of one place and moved on. John never thought himself built for staying in one place too long, and considered that maybe this whole thing was a blessing in disguise. Then he thought of how it came with a shoulder that ached when it rained, and a leg that hurt though it had not been shot. Twenty-six, and already he was a cripple.

While in Paris, he rediscovered his love of sketching, quite on accident one day. In the unisex dormitory of one of the hostels he stayed at (A squat, grey building that overlooked the Seine and smelled pungently of yeast thanks to the bakery next door) he met a young woman named Mary Morstan who was constantly dropping papers and charcoals everywhere she went. One day, John picked up a few of them and sat down, intending to doodle just to pass the time. He ended up doodling Mary herself. She was delighted. He had a real talent, she said, and he should hone it.

After that, he got to know Mary. She was an artist; a painter, and a vagabond like him. She was Scottish, born in Edinburgh. Had a thick accent. Didn't shave her legs or her cunt. Sometimes she traipsed around in nothing but her knickers, or nothing at all. John had a suspicion that she did it to draw his attention, purely for want of him to draw her, use her as his muse.

He did draw her; many times. Clothed, unclothed. She let him position her, bended to his will. The artistic portions of their minds held congress that way. Of course, she was no great beauty, not delicate; no working-class girl ever was. Her nose was wide and her lips were thin, disproportionate. Her hair was a kinky shock of dark auburn pin-curls that was always disheveled, and not attractively so. But there was something about her, in the way she moved, in the way she was so comfortable with herself and confident with her body, that fascinated him.

Mary, in turn, was fascinated by his drawings. They were not great water color or acrylic paintings, like her own. Nor were they abstract works of wonder. They were just charcoal on parchment. But she was endlessly intrigued, sitting behind him and watching him when he was not drawing her, or she was not painting.

"Can you draw men?" she questioned, one day as he drew from memory a woman he had seen earlier that day, staring at the sky as her skirts flapped wildly about her.

"Never tried," he said, "but probably. I can draw everything else. Why? Do you have a model for me?"

"Mmm," was all she said, and for the rest of the day neglected to bring the subject up again. But two days later, she introduced him to André, whom was a particularly gangly specimen of twenty-two-year-old male. He had big brown eyes and chestnut hair. A pointed chin, pouted lips and snub nose made his face look very angular, but very young. He was quiet but not shy, and when asked to remove his clothes did so without fuss or false modesty. It was obvious he had done this before.

Underneath the clothes, he was leanly muscled and pale. No tan to speak of on this man; just freckles. Thousands and thousands of freckles, on his arms, thighs, shoulders, buttocks. John looked at Mary and smirked, because he knew why she'd brought André to him.

He may have had an affair with Mary, had she not made it very clear, in no uncertain terms and very early on in their acquaintanceship, that she was a woman of a certain persuasion; a woman whom preferred the company of other women. John had no problem with that, having indulged in the touch of his own side of the species a few times himself, especially while in the army. It was disappointing, but he got over it, and when he and Mary parted ways, it was on the best of terms.

"I want you to keep doing this," Mary said on the day she left the hostile in Paris. She gestured to the sketchbook, which used to be hers but had become his when the number of sketches in it by him far surpassed those by her. Mary was not much of a sketcher, anyway. "You're good at it. Even if you do go off to America and find a job there. I don't want you to forget about this part of you again."

All John could do was nod, because for the first time he realized that she'd listened to him, all those nights when he talked about going off to America, taking advantage of the abundance of land and the lack of doctors. They were practically giving land away over there, he informed her on many an occasion as she stared at him, droopy-eyed with tiredness or the effects of some good wine. And over there they didn't care if your hands shook, as long as you got the job done, they were so starved for doctors and surgeons.

John's hands did not shake while he was drawing.

Two days after Mary left the hostel, Mike Stamford came breezing through. John was surprised to see him, as one usually is when an old face is seen in a new place. Mike, apparently, had lost his job and, subsequently, his flat due to cutbacks, and was trying out the drifter lifestyle. It wasn't working out for him. Where he'd once been quite pudgy, he was now thin, and looked ten years older than John knew he should. There was nothing for it, though, as John well knew; when a man was homeless, there were very few things he could do to change the status quo.

What brought them to London, John couldn't quite explain. He figured it had something to do with a subconscious feeling of homesickness. John hadn't been to London in over a year, and hadn't seen his sister or mum in a longer time than that. He hadn't gone to visit them in the short time he'd been in London after being drop-kicked there by the army, because he figured the sight of him still so raw would be a bit too much. They had corresponded when he was in the army, but very rarely since, as it was hard to keep in touch when one changed their location every few months. He periodically sent letters, just to assure them that he was alive.

So, he sent off for London, Mike in tow, and located his mum and sister. Mum had remarried, and her husband was nice enough. Harriet had gone from the eleven-year-old he left behind to go to India into a fifteen-year-old beauty that he hardly recognized. They spent the day together, mum insisted they get their picture taken, not knowing when she would next see her first-born and how different he would look, and told him she would frame the picture when it was developed. He left, to meet back up with Mike, and they spent the night sleeping under London Bridge.

The next day, with nothing else to do, they hopped on the back of a lorry and let it take them where it pleased. Apparently, that location was Southampton. Which was how they ended up in that pub, on that particular day, while a few blocks away a ship called _Titanic_ was about to make history for being the biggest thing on the ocean.

On the table sat two third-class tickets for the ship. _Titanic_ was headed to America. John could see his chance.

"Hit me," said Olaf, setting down one card and holding his hand out for another. It seemed to be the only English he knew, aside from 'check.' John, the dealer, slipped a card from the top of the deck, gave it to Olaf, and returned his eyes to his own hand.

Set down the four. Drew.

Ten of clubs. Full house.

It was hard to contain a smirk of mirth, but he did it. Mike continued to sweat bullets and he could tell by the look on Olaf's face that the card he got was not the card he wanted. Sven, however, was impassive; straight-faced as John. He could have nothing. He could have a royal flush. John prayed for something weak.

"Alright," John said, loud enough to catch the attention of all at the table, pulling them from wherever their minds had been wandering. "Moment of truth, mates. Mike?"

Mike set down his hand. A mismatch of low-ranking cards, which amounted to nothing. John sighed, "Nothing."

"Nope." Mike's voice was small, unsure. They had bet everything they had, except for the clothes on their backs. Mike dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, groaning. Obviously, he thought they had already lost.

"Sven?"

Sven set down his cards. Nothing whatsoever. A little glimmer of hope bubbled within John and he glanced at Olaf, raising an eyebrow. When the other man set down his cards, revealing a comparatively low-ranking two pair (Two nines, two sevens) John knew he had won. Was going to America. Was going to live that dream he spent so many nights telling Mary about in Paris, what seemed like a lifetime ago but could really only have been three weeks ago at most. Time had an odd way of working, when you had nowhere to be. It was hard to contain himself. Something rose up within him, begging to be left free.

He couldn't help a little smirk. "Two pair." He sighed then, glancing over at Mike, raised his eyebrows. "Sorry, mate."

"Shit," Mike said, with more feeling than John had ever heard his old friend put behind a swear. Mike was not much for swearing in the first place. "What are we going to do, John? We can't get around in London with no money! We'll be sleeping under bridges for weeks!"

"Supposing that won't be a problem," John pondered, glancing back at his hand. "Us going to America and all."

"Wha—America?" Mike stared at him as though he had grown an extra head.

"Only if you want." He glanced at Mike out of his periphery, and allowed a small smile to grace his lips. Then, glancing back at the two across the table, sat down his hand and said, "Full house. I believe the pot is ours, gents." Mike, whom was still gawping, squeaked in the back of his throat then reached across the table and grabbed the two tickets, cradling them to his chest in vague amazement, as if they were his newborn child. John laughed as he picked up the cards. The laugh sounded too loud, too hysterical to his own ears, and over it Sven growled something at Olaf, slammed his fists down on the table.

"We're going to America?" Mike asked, like it was too good to be true. Maybe it was, but John didn't care.

"Yeah, mate. We're hopping the pond." He grabbed one of the tickets from Mike as he stood up, under the murderous watch of the two Swedes. Picking up his bag, he swept the pot into it, then stood still for a second and let it all sink in. It, of course, could not all sink in. Finally, he tipped his head back and let out another hysterical giggle, if only to release the myriad of feelings swirling in his gut. "Jesus Christ, I can't believe it. America." Glanced at Mike, whom was grinning like a madman and clutching his back to his chest, like a child with a security blanket. "We're going to America!"

"America," Mike echoed.

"Nah, mate! _Titanic _goes to America—In five minutes!"

John's head whipped around, to stare at the bartender. Emphatically, he declared, "Bollocks."

They sprung into action, swinging their bags onto their backs. John gave the Swedes a short salute, two fingers against his forehead while Mike scuttling out ahead of him. Then they were gone, pelting their way towards the pier, across the street and down three blocks until they hit the milling crowd. Neither of them were exactly in shape, but adrenaline kept them going, even as they crashed into people and knocked over piles of luggage and, at one point, almost crashed into a pair of horses. Then John made the mistake of looking up, and was stopped in his tracks by the sight before him.

_Titanic_ was pure magnificence. It seemed to shoot to the sky, and go on for miles. Its hull was black, blacker than the sky at night. It was towering, imposing, monstrous. John had never seen anything so big, at least not up close and not floating at a pier. He realized, in that moment, why everyone was so enamored of the ship.

"What are you doing?" Mike's voice came to him, and then there was a hand on one of his braces and he was being dragged, bodily, through the throng. "Five minutes, the man said! You can't just stand there and stare at it—we have to get _on_ it!"

So they ran even faster, John apologizing and assuring Mike that he didn't know what had come over him—he had been a soldier, after all, and had seen much more awe-inspiring things that a ship. But Mike just waved his hand, shaking off the apology without a word.

To both their horror, the gangway was already being pulled away when they reached it. Frantically, they called for it to stop, and the officer detaching it looked up in shock. John, panting, rested his hands on his knees and said, "We're passengers. Passengers." He waved the tickets in the officer's face. He leaned back in response and trailed his eyes over them, obviously taking in their disheveled appearance. John knew he looked nothing like a solider or a surgeon, but after a year and a half he was still not used to getting those kind of looks; the ones that said _what kind of pond scum are you?_ So he glared back, defiantly, and the officer seemed to reconcile with his sense of shame, for he stopped his examination.

"Have you been through the inspection?"

John, whom had completely forgotten about the health inspections, quickly said, "Yes! Yes, of course we have!" before Mike, with his bad acting and bluffing skills, could try to form a reaction or response and added, "Besides, we're doctors—both of us. We're perfectly healthy and hygienic, I assure you."

"Right," the officer said, nodding and stepping aside. John had no doubt that he would have been more thorough with his interrogation, had the ship not been two minutes from setting off. He certainly did not want to be the reason _Titanic_ set off late on its maiden voyage.

John hopped the gap between the gangway and ship, Mike behind him. He spared a glance for his friend, to make sure his habitual clumsiness had not earned him a swim, before turning back towards the corridor and running until he found a door labeled _stairs_. They ran up them, laughing gleefully the entire time, and burst out onto A-deck in time to hear the cacophonous bellow of the ship's whistle as the final moorings were dropped and the tugs started pulling them down the River Test.

Leaning over the railing, he waved. Mike asked if he knew someone, but John just rolled his eyes and said of course not, but this is just what people _do_. Truthfully, it felt as though he was saying goodbye to England. Who knew when he would see it again. Getting to England from America was not nearly as easy as traveling between the island and continental Europe. In fact, for someone of limited means, it was nearly impossible. Yesterday may have been the last time he ever saw his mother and sister face-to-face. At least his mother. When she was older, maybe Harriet would find her way to the states—she'd always wanted to go as well. But he very well may have never seen his mother again.

He didn't realize until later, when he was laying in the bunk bed that was to be his for the next five to seven days, that he had forgotten his cane in at the pub, and he hadn't felt a single pain all afternoon.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chaper; TBC<strong>

* * *

><p>AN: Hello! Sorry about the delay; life's going through a hectic period and I couldn't really find time to write. Hopefully I'll be updating Finding Sherlock within the next few days, but until then, please enjoy this update. It was done a bit quickly and I think that may have detracted, but all in all I'm rather happy with this. I hope you were all satisfied with my characterization of Moriarty; I've never really written for him before.

You Moriarty fans all probably want to kill me, yeah? You'll be satisfied to know I'm planning a fic where I'm rather nice to good ol' Jim. Hopefully that will take the edge of your disgruntlement. ;)

Hope you all enjoyed.


	3. Chapter Two: Promises

**Chapter Two: Promises are Meant to be Broken**

* * *

><p>The name of Sherlock's oldest friend was Yorick, and they had known each other since Sherlock found Yorick when he was seven. It was on a trip to Sussex, where his grandparents lived. They used to take that trip every fall, until his grandmother died when he was thirteen. On his particular trip, he was digging in the woods, rather far away, and found Yorick beneath a tree. He took Yorick back to his mother, who screamed and demanded he put Yorick back outside, preferably via the window. His father, on the other hand, let Yorick stay.<p>

Yorick also happened to be a human skull.

"You're not putting that on the mantle, are you? It's grotesque, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up at his brother, whom was standing in the center of the room, glaring disapprovingly in Sherlock's direction. Mrs. Hudson was somewhere near, flitting about unpacking their suitcases. Not that she would be much help in his campaign to give Yorick a new home above the fireplace. She hated the skull even more than Mycroft and Mummy. Had hidden it from him on more than one occasion. She would probably be the first to volunteer to throw it off the side of the ship and into the water.

"Where do you suggest I put him, brother dear?" It made Mycroft bristle when Sherlock referred to the skull in gender-specific pronouns, as though the skull were a person. He viewed it as a certain kind of psychosis. If there was one thing Sherlock enjoyed, it was ruffling his brother's feathers. "The mantle is where I kept him in my rooms in France. He seemed to quite like it there. Much better than my dresser at home."

"Perhaps we should put _him_ somewhere where _he_ won't be viewed by polite company?" Mycroft gave a smile that he tried very hard to make benevolent, but was anything but. Leaning against his umbrella like that, legs crossed. It was as good as a battle stance from any trained soldier. Mycroft Holmes was on the offensive and only the well-trained could even hope to beat him in an intellectual battle of wills.

Thankfully, Sherlock had been training since birth in just how to get the last word where his brother was concerned.

"Mmm. In that case, I'm sure we can find another place for him." Mycroft didn't relax. Not even for a moment. He knew Sherlock was never so amicable. It made the following statement less satisfying, that he didn't get to watch victory seep from Mycroft's face like pigment from a fainting maiden's cheeks, but he still relished the words as they rolled off his tongue. "Perhaps the bedroom? In the window? Oh, I think he'd like that."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft's tone was hard, so put-upon, as if it was a chore to merely be in the presence of his younger brother. The hand on his ebony wood umbrella tightened and he drew himself up to his full height, possibly to seem more intimidating. Mycroft had no use for a walking stick, although he used the umbrella as one for reasons unknown. Sherlock thought it made him look entirely too pretentious for his own good.

"Yes, dear brother?" He trailed his index finger around the rim of Yorick's left eye socket, cradling the skull in his arms like a child. Yorick did not have the natural, yellowed look he had when Sherlock first found him. Instead, he was bleach white because father's condition for Sherlock keeping the skull had been getting it professionally cleaned. At the time Sherlock had been desperately disappointed, but it was better than not getting to keep Yorick at all. The skull really was his only friend.

"I…Sherlock, for God's sake, stop _doing that_. It's macabre. It once belonged to a person, you know!"

Defiantly, Sherlock slipped two fingers into the socket and tapped his fingers against the back. Mycroft flinched, obviously disturbed, and Sherlock smiled to himself. "Fascinating where you draw lines of propriety, Mycroft. Allowing your only brother to be sold into a life of glorified slavery is perfectly fine, but a skull on the mantle is intolerable."

Immediately, Mycroft turned and started heading for the door. "We are not having this conversation. I'll be in Mummy's stateroom; come join us when you've decided to be mature."

It made Sherlock absolutely furious that Mycroft thought he could just brush him away like that. Write him off as immature and stubborn. It pissed him off that his brother could remain so firmly planted on his high horse when it was his fault that Sherlock was in this predicament. He was tired of being the reject brother, the one that did everything wrong. He wanted Mycroft to know it. For once, he wanted him to know what it was like to be miserable. Slowly, he set down the skull on the mantle and said, "You promised me, Mycroft."

Amazing, what a simple change in posture did to a person's stature. Mycroft seemed to shrink to half his normal height just by hunching his shoulders in. Sherlock watched on in satisfaction. "I know."

"You promised me you would stop them."

"I know."

"You promised me you would be able to take over the company before they had a chance to find me a husband. Before they could feminize me."

"I. Know." Mycroft's shoulders were slumped far over now, his hand gripping his umbrella tightly. Sherlock wondered whether it was to hold back his emotions, or something more carnal; perhaps the urge to hit his own brother. Part of Sherlock wished he would; the part of him wished he would stop behaving like a machine and revert back to the older brother he'd known ten years ago, before Mycroft went to University and everything changed. Another part of him just wanted Mycroft to have a small inkling of the misery Sherlock was in. No part of him regretted the acidic words he was speaking. Sherlock had made it a habit never to regret speaking the truth.

"You promised me you would protect me, Mycroft. Do you remember that? When we were little and you told me that you would never let anything bad happen to me? That you were my stronger older brother and you would always be there? I never held that promise to you. Never bothered you when you were at University. I withstood the bullying by myself, and never asked to you to come to my aid. I fought my own battles so that you could be there when it truly mattered. And yet, when it did, you balked and watched from the sidelines as she handed my life over to a man who is now going to _destroy it_."

Mycroft leaned against the doorframe for a moment, apparently unable to support himself, then closed the door again. He turned around slowly, and Sherlock was a bit shocked to see how defeated his brother looked. Quietly, Mycroft said, "You will never know how much I regret going so far to University and leaving you to fend for yourself. You were…too young for it. To suddenly have no one."

Of course Mycroft would latch onto the least consequential part of that entire monologue and try to repent all his sins by apologizing for it.

"That point is null and void. We're not talking about your unwitting failings when I was younger. I recovered from those years ago."

"Did you really?" At his brother's words, Sherlock turned, pulled himself up to his full height (Which, nevertheless, was still an inch and a half shorter than Mycroft) and furrowed his brows. The contempt rolled off him in waves, so much so that Mrs. Hudson stopped dead in her tracks as she entered the room, turned around, and fled back out.

"Yes, of course. I'm not some weakling. Not some…ignorant child."

"Not ignorant, no. But you're still a child, Sherlock."

Sherlock could have strangled him. "Shut your _fat face_, Mycroft. How's that for mature? Just because you're seven years older than me, you think you have the right to call me a child?"

However, Mycroft's face was not one of superiority or ridicule. Rather, the lines had softened and his eyebrows were turned down, away from each other. If Sherlock didn't know any better, he'd say his brother's expression was…apologetic. He did know better, or so he thought, right up until Mycroft said, "I don't mean that in jest. Just in the most literal sense. You're still a child. A mere baby. Seventeen, and just barely. You're…not old enough…or, rather, too young to be going through all of this. To have this all on your shoulders. I'd rather it was me. I really would."

"That's easy to say when you know it never will be you. The eldest son of a family of high profile being feminized? It would be a mockery. Oh, how people would _talk_. No no no, much better for the younger son, the one that was never going to amount to anything anyway. Very low-profile, that. Still shameful but not nearly so. We'll just whisper behind his back and tut because it's such a _shame_ that Violet Holmes had to do that. Better than losing it all, though." Absentmindedly, he turned back to the skull and took it back in his hands. "He'll just become a shadow that we see but ignore because we don't want to see the reflection of how cruel our society is in his eyes."

The sound of shuffling fabric alerted him to Mycroft crossing the room. "That's poetic."

Sherlock snorted to himself.

"I tried, you know," Mycroft sighed. "To convince her to sell the company. We could pay Father's debts and still live comfortably, although not lavishly as she's used to. I imagine even in the state it's in, it would sell for several million pounds. But she would have none of it. I threatened to take you and flee to America. But I think we both knew that I would never have been able to do that without major consequences and repercussions."

"Of course. Couldn't do anything to jeopardize your precious fucking political career."

"That was the least of my worries, as I think you are well aware of. The idea of a political career had barely passed my fancy when this whole scheme was hatched. Mother has been planning this since you were quite young."

This was something that Sherlock had not been aware of. Turning to his brother, he narrowed his eyes. "Since when?"

Mycroft crossed his arms and turned his head down. "I'd rather not say. Maybe someday, when you're older…" He stopped, met Sherlock's eyes. His fury dimmed, because he could see in Mycroft's eyes that yes, he would tell him, someday and somewhere where the walls didn't have ears. It, indeed, could be years before they had the chance to talk under those conditions. "You were young enough that I was too young to support you by myself. Mummy knew my threat was transparent."

Sherlock had no response to that. Nor did he want to hear more. Turning away, he walked over to one of the armchairs and picked up his violin case. Mycroft began a hasty retreat, not wishing to hear Sherlock's incessant plucking, and knowing that Sherlock never played properly when Mycroft was near. As Mycroft fled, Sherlock looked over his beloved instrument. He hadn't touched it since leaving for France, leaving hastily as they did, and with a command by Mummy to bring only the essentials. Sherlock would have considered the violin essential, but Mummy would not, and he wouldn't have put it past her to take it away just to spite him. So he hid it at the manor, where no one could find it, praying that when he returned it would be out of tune, but at least unharmed.

To his surprise, it was tuned and, upon inspection, polished. Not only that, but the bow was well-rosined.

"Mrs. Hudson!"

The older woman poked her head out of the next room, the bedroom he was to share with Mycroft. She had been loitering in there far too long and Sherlock knew she had been hiding from (And eavesdropping on) his fight with Mycroft. Perplexedly, he asked, "Did you tune my violin?"

"Heavens no, dear. I've never held one in my life. How would I have tuned it?"

"Then who…?"

Mrs. Hudson shrugged, rubbed his arm, and drifted out of the room, humming to herself. Sherlock stared at the violin, wondering to himself. The only other possibility was…well, that just wasn't feasible.

_When you've eliminated all other possibilities, whatever remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth._

Slowly, he raised the violin to his shoulder, settled his chin, and played.

* * *

><p>"So what are you going to do once you get to America?"<p>

He and Mike were pretty much the only ones left on deck. The sun was starting to set, and it was rather overcast so their fellow passengers had gone back inside. The alert for dinner had echoed from the upper decks a few minutes ago, and John figured that meant dinnertime was approaching for steerage too. He was impressed to find that they actually had a dining room, after all the stories of how despicable the third class accommodations were on most steamships. That was some sort of ploy the White Star line had going, though. Treat you well so you'll bring your family over on the same line.

Leaning against the railing and staring southeast, where Cherbourg was appearing on the portside, he sighed and rubbed his face. It would be about an hour until they dropped anchor and the tenders met up with the ship. Dinner would still be on by then, to accommodate the new boarders, but John hoped to be out of the dining room before then.

"John?"

John hummed, waving his hand to signal that he'd heard Mike, and said, "I'd always kind of hoped that I'd know what to do once I was there. Frankly though, mate, I have no clue." He turned around, bending his elbows backwards to brace them on the railing, and continued, "What happened this afternoon was so sudden. I don't think it's quite sunk in yet."

Mike chuckled and patted John's shoulder, the uninjured one, and John felt a shot of gratitude to his friend that he remembered which one not to touch. Or it was just luck. He decided to give Mike the benefit of the doubt, though.

"I'm going to go get dinner. Save you a seat, shall I?"

John made a vague noise of assent and turned back towards the railing as Mike walked away. Turning his face up, he closed his eyes and felt the cold air hitting his face. _Titanic_ was going at nowhere near full speed, considering they would just have to slow down again to drop anchor at Cherbourg. The crew was coming on deck as they got closer. John could see the lights of the coastal city, not very far. They would probably be coming to a stop within half an hour. He should have been heading inside to get some dinner.

But it was nice and quiet out here, and John needed a few minutes to think. It was the first chance he'd had to do it all day. He rubbed his face, chin to forehead, and bent down to rest his head against the cool railing.

He honestly did not know what to do. There was nowhere for him to go in America. When he got there, God knew what he would do. He'd always expected to get himself a bit better off financially before going to America. He'd never expected to be setting off for the Great Wide Unknown with only ten pounds in his pocket and the clothes on his back.

He wasn't even sure how much a pound was worth compared to the American dollar. Less, surely.

"Christ."

He slid down, to sit on the deck floor. His leg was suddenly throbbing and he couldn't believe that he'd left his cane behind in Southampton; what he'd even been thinking, how he'd run so far without falling down. Rubbing at his thigh, he stared up at the crimson sky, then glanced absentmindedly at the upper decks. There was a man up there, on the deserted deck, smoking a cigarette. John wondered why he wasn't getting ready with the rest of the upperclassmen. One of the reasons they announced dinner so early was to give the upper classes time to dress.

Although, he figured that would be more for the women than the men.

At first, he thought the light was just playing tricks on him. Then he blinked a few times and realized just how the man's features were. Or boy? He honestly looked about twelve. His cheekbones were high and pointed, and his eyes tilted inward. He looked feline.

As John watched, he tossed the cigarette into the water, turned, and walked away. John scratched the back of his neck and wondered why the hair there was standing up.

* * *

><p>Mummy had told James and Mycroft to go ahead to dinner, find their place cards and seats at dinner. She now stood in front of the mirror, putting the final touches on her appearance with the assistance of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock stood just in the door to the bedroom, fiddling with the overlong hems of his sleeves. They fell to his knuckles, and it was a chore trying to eat with them and not embarrass himself by dipping them in rich sauces and juices that stained. His suit was dark emerald, fitted around the waist to accentuate his slim figure. That was one thing Madam Beaumont had appreciated; they didn't have to bind his waist or put him on a diet, because he was slim enough originally.<p>

Thank God for small mercies.

"Are you ready, then?" Mummy asked in French, sweeping a lock of graying chocolate brown hair behind her ear. Violet Holmes was a handsome woman, all angles and olive skin. She was not a classic beauty, and her youngest son did not get his bizarre looks from her husband (Whom, by all accounts, had been a perfectly average-looking man) but nor was she by any means homely. She was also relatively young. She had only been eighteen when Mycroft was born, and so was still in the early years of middle age. She could have remarried if she wanted to. But, to her, that ship had sailed—and it was time to focus on her sons. Unfortunately, that meant obtaining control of every aspect of Sherlock's life.

That is, until she handed said control over to James Moriarty at the end of the month.

"Yes." Sherlock gave his sleeve one last tug, then abandoned his effort and pushed away from the doorframe. He approached his mother, let Mrs. Hudson brush some dust off his coat in the region of his hip, straighten his bowtie. Mummy raked her eyes over his appearance, giving him a thorough once-over. This was his first public appearance since completing the first course of his feminization. He'd left France with the understanding that he had much more training to undergo, but that he would at least be fit enough to go out in public and not embarrass himself. Or, more importantly, James.

Mummy tilted his chin up, searched his eyes. Into him she was instilling an impression of her desperation, her need for this endeavor to succeed. If it did not, she would lose everything, and make an enemy of a very powerful man. For some reason, no matter how badly he thought of her in the abstract, when he came face-to-face with his mother he still felt the impulse to impress her; to compete for her love.

"You remember what you were taught."

"Yes."

"You'll behave?"

"_Yes._" This time it was a little more forceful; more growl than statement.

Mummy must have caught something on his breath. Furrowing her brows, she leaned in and said, "Exhale," and when Sherlock obeyed, her suspicious expression became exasperated and somewhat angered. "Have you been smoking? What have I told you about smoking?"

"It's a disgusting habit," Sherlock said monotonously. The routine had gotten old after the first three repeats, but they still went through the same thing every time she caught him smoking. "People don't want to smell cigarette smoke when they're talking to you."

"Who gave them to you? James or Mycroft?"

Averting his eyes, Sherlock made a split-second decision and said, "James."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock."

"I'm not."

Obviously, his half-heated assurance was not satisfactory to Mummy, but she gave up in favor of more important issues; namely, reminding Sherlock firmly of his place. As if he could ever forget.

She planted her hands on either side of his face and said, slowly and deliberately, "There are many people we know on this ship, Sherlock. Many people who will not hesitate to ridicule us and make a mockery of our name in the gossip mill if you step even _one_ toe out of line. I need your honest word. You will behave. Do you understand me?" Her fingers dug into his skin as he tried to turn away. "Look at me, Sherlock."

He gritted his teeth together and nodded once. Mummy, not satisfied, continued to stare until he gritted out, "Yes. Fine. I will behave. Like the good little _dog_ I am."

Mummy sighed and released him, turning around to grab her shawl then back towards him. "This doesn't have to be difficult, Sherlock. It's only as hard as you make it."

"Whatever you say, Mummy."

Violet Holmes sighed, and signaled for Sherlock to follow her out the door. In the corridor, they joined the flow of people towards the elevators, which would deposit them on D deck. Mummy waved at a few people they knew, mainly people whom had done business with Sherlock's father once upon a time, and he was forced to wave as well. When they realized who he was, some people openly stared. Feminization was new, and not entirely understood, but if executed well was accepted. No one seemed to deny that Sherlock was a good example of feminization done right, what with his soft features and slim figure. He was the perfect candidate.

Some men his age openly gawked at him. Some men not so near his age. He gritted his teeth and bore the attention without comment.

"Sherlock, you remember the Marqués of Morella." Mummy seemed to have found someone she actually felt inclined to grace with speech, instead of a condescending wave of her hand.

The Marqués of Morella was a man a few years older than his father would have been, had he still been alive. His brown hair had started graying since the last time he'd slapped eyes on the man, and his handsome looks had started to fad with age. Sherlock never forgot a face, however, and he knew he remembered this man from some of the God-awful social functions he'd been forced to endure earlier in his adolescence, probably at the age of twelve or thirteen. They were Spanish, had two sons and a daughter, spoke very little French (When speaking to them, Mummy spoke in their only shared language—English) and liked red wine a bit too much.

And that was just what Sherlock remembered from years ago.

After only a few moments, he had deduced the state of their marriage (Practically nonexistent; the Marqués had a live-in lover, and the Marquesa had been having a string of affairs for no less than a year), their financial situation (Stable, surprisingly, although it wouldn't remain that way for long if the Marquesa kept making weekend trips to Paris with her daughter), the fact that their son was engaged, the strained relationship between father and daughter (He was a classic misogynist, expected her to have been married years ago. She was nearing in on twenty-two and still no husband; she was going to be an old maid soon), and the state of the Marqués' health (Not good. Not good at all. Yellow tint to the skin suggested something to do with the liver. Possibly in the late stages of something very nasty).

All of this ran through Sherlock's head as he stared. He reveled in it; hardly ever did he get to stretch those portions of his brain anymore; give them the exercise they needed. Mummy had barely let him out of the house in France, and absolutely never off the estate. And you could only deduce facts about the same people for so long before it became second nature and you didn't have to _try_ anymore. To have the ability to focus on a few subjects and really give them a thorough once-over was invigorating.

Trying to keep it all to himself was another challenge altogether. Sherlock was a show-off; the byproduct of being the less favorite son, always having to prove himself. It took physical effort not to just out with everything he'd deduced. To stand there, demure like some vacant, dead-behind-the-eyes socialite was painful.

Finally, he chose to say, "Congratulations on your son's engagement."

They were quiet for a moment, obviously trying to remember when they'd mentioned it, before they shrugged it off as something he'd obtained through the typical gossip and thanked him. Mummy, who knew better, stared at him in such a way that promised punishment if he didn't stop toeing the line.

"Your daughter is on the ship, isn't she?" asked Mummy. "I was looking at the passenger list earlier and noticed her name."

"Yes," replied the Marquesa. She seemed to be doing most of the talking. Sherlock wondered if the Marqués' disease was so severe that it drained him of all energy to speak. "She is."

"She and my son Mycroft used to be very good friends, as I recall."

Unbeknownst to all of them, their daughter Anita (Who called herself Anthea when with friends) was standing quite near, smirking into the book she held. She looked up, met Sherlock's eye, and winked a bit. Anthea had indeed been quite close with Sherlock and Mycroft, nestled so evenly as she was between their ages. Closer to Mycroft, though, which only made itself more apparent in later years when she and he ended up at the same University. They had entered a relationship, a sexual one, and it had stayed that way for many years. Only recently had Mycroft started considering that perhaps Anthea was the person he should take as a wife.

Personally, Sherlock endorsed that decision. He could tolerate Anthea at least, and she had a certain appealing wit about her. She and his brother could function well together, and seemed to hold genuine affection for each other, which was more than could be hoped for in marriages between people of their status.

The Marqués and Marquesa of Morella were the only ones that did not know about this little arrangement. Even Mummy knew, although she'd never said it outright. She'd quietly supported the decision when she found the French letters in Mycroft's school things one Christmas and turned a blind eye.

It was things like that which made Sherlock marvel at how well this sector of society seemed to function on lies and deceit.

Or, as Sherlock realized from a subtle facial expression of the Marquesa's, maybe only the Marqués did not know. No matter, though. If his condition did not improve (Against all optimism apparently, heading for America with him in this condition. American medicine, supposedly so radical) he would not be alive to see the relationship revealed.

He and Mummy moved away from the Marqués and his family, and started trying to find their way to their table. By aid of Mycroft's head bobbing above the rest, they found it. They were seated with several prominent figures, some of which Sherlock recognized and some of which he did not. For some reason, a rather rundown-looking man sat quietly towards the head. Mycroft introduced him as Gregory Lestrade, whom was an assistant to Thomas Andrews in building the ship. It explained why his suit was so tattered, but Sherlock wondered why the man was in first class—or even on the ship. Usually only the designers and main partners of the line were awarded first class tickets for a new ship's maiden voyage.

Sherlock decided that Gregory Lestrade must have been more than he appeared, and endeavored to study him more in the future.

There was also a woman at their tabled named Irene. Irene Alder. When Mummy set eyes on her, she snorted and muttered, "_Nouveau riche._" Newly rich. The woman talked the talk but she did not walk the walk. Her clothes were obviously fancy—but she had not quiet lost the brashness of what must have been an impoverished upbringing. She was suave, though, and practically dripped of savoir faire. No doubt she could pull her own in any crowd, much less this one, where all you had to do was stroke an ego and have them eating out of your hand.

James pulled out his seat for him, patting him on the hip as he sat down. Sherlock stiffened and crossed his arms, but at least he was seated next to one of his objects of study, Gregory Lestrade. Irene Adler was across. The Marqués, Marquesa, and Anthea were sitting down the table. Mummy and Mycroft sat on the other side of James. James' brooding valet sat at the far end, examining the proceedings with the same tight-lipped, tense expression he always wore.

Sherlock unfolded his napkin, spread it across his lap, and gripped the fabric over his knees tightly. Damn he needed a cigarette.

Dinner was tedious, although one good thing about the French-style cooking was the small portion sizes. Sherlock had not had anything resembling an appetite for months, and clearing his plate was made exponentially easier when there were only three or four forkfuls in the entire dish.

"Trying to keep your figure, are you? I see you nibbling over there." Irene Adler observed from across the table, smirking as she cut into her _filet mignon_. She had been watching Sherlock nearly as closely as he had been watching her, if that was possible, and he didn't know whether to be impressed, flattered, or irritated. "I don't blame you. You can get a long way with a body like yours, Mr. Holmes." A wink.

Mycroft, on the other side of James, spluttered. Lestrade (Whom had refused all drink throughout dinner; recovering alcoholic, almost surely) snorted into his napkin, seemingly in spite of himself. Mummy stabbed ferociously at her steak and gritted her teeth. Sherlock decided he liked Irene Adler.

"Are you feeling okay, darling?" James, always there to play the part of attentive, put-upon fiancé. It made Sherlock want to push his face into his plate until he drowned in the sauce. This, though, was Sherlock's chance to get away from this ridiculousness. Setting down his silverware, he pressed a hand to his stomach.

"No. I'm feeling sick again."

"Do you want to go back up to your rooms?"

"Yes." No use being coy. They both knew what he wanted. James' benevolent, concerned expression dropped for a fraction of a second, giving way to a darkly disapproving glare, before the James that was fit for public consumption was back. He gripped Sherlock's upper arm.

"I'll walk you back."

"No." Mycroft spoke now, standing up. Even Sherlock's eyes widened, because it was not in Mycroft's nature to interrupt in such a way. He watched almost detachedly as his brother slid James' hand away from his upper arm, with more force that it appeared, and replaced it with his own hand. "I'll take him up. If he's not feeling well, I know how to care for him." Then they were off, weaving through the tables and dodging waiters.

"You shouldn't have done that," Sherlock said, once they reached B deck. Mycroft was practically dragging him by the arm, forcing Sherlock into a jog to keep up. Mycroft's legs were longer, and at times he didn't realize his own strength. "Mummy will rip us to shreds, and James already wants your head on a platter." He tugged once, then again, then a third time, frantically with a growl of, "Mycroft, you're going to give me _bruises_."

Mycroft let him go, stomped forward a few steps, and remarked, "You know, Sherlock, I just don't understand you sometimes. You spent twenty minutes this morning accusing me of inattentiveness, but when I take the necessary steps to defend you, you act as though it's an inconvenience for you!"

"Pardon the pun, Mycroft, but that ship has sailed!" Sherlock practically bellowed this, figuring anyone inhabiting these rooms would be at dinner. "You're _years_ too late, dear brother, and there is nothing _sadder_ than a man trying to prevent the destruction of something that's already broken."

"I saw the look on his face, Sherlock. I didn't want you up here, alone, where he knew you were."

"Why ever not? He can hardly do more damage than he's already done. I have to learn to fend for myself, you know. He's going to by my husband sooner than later, and you won't be able to come to my rescue anymore."

"Sherlock! Open your eyes! He wanted to take advantage of you. He wants to _fuck_ you, and frankly doesn't care if you want it or not. Surely that must alarm you!"

"Sex doesn't alarm me," Sherlock insisted, perhaps a bit too quickly. He was fully aware of how obviously he'd flinched when Mycroft spat the word _fuck_. He didn't think he'd ever heard his brother put so much feeling into one syllable.

Mycroft gave a derisive snort. "How would you know?"

For a moment, Sherlock stood still, barely moving. Mycroft glared, hands bunched at his sides. Then, all at once, Sherlock turned and stormed away, barking over his shoulder that he wanted to be left alone. He heard Mycroft's footfalls behind him, and for a moment thought he was following. When he turned around, there was no one in the hallway with him. He flipped around, stomped to the room, and flung himself in the door.

Locked himself in the bathroom. Slid down the door and crouched on the tiles. Placed his head between his knees and tried to breathe.

* * *

><p>Bill Murray was a tall, redheaded Scottish bloke that came aboard at Queenstown. He and Mike met him when they came out on deck for a smoke. John didn't smoke usually; it just wasn't his vice, and he'd read a few studies in med school that suggested it wasn't all that healthy for you, either. But in the middle of the ocean, there was very little to do other than socialize, and when everyone smoked, you joined in with the crowd. Mike passed his pack around, John took one, and they inadvertently attracted Murray with the draw of tobacco.<p>

"Ever been on a steamer before?" Murray inquired as they leaned against the railings and smoked. Queenstown had disappeared behind _Titanic_ almost an hour ago, and everything around them was blue. Blue sky, blue sea. It was almost eerie. John felt isolated, even with the thousand other passengers on the ship.

"No," John said, squinting off into the wide horizon. His hair, which was longer than he'd ever had it before (To his own annoyance) whipped in front of his eyes. "Not any ship as big as this, anyway."

"Well-traveled, though," Murray said. Exhaled a breath of smoke. "Both of you. You have that look about you. So where you been?"

"The continent, mostly," John remarked, shrugging. He blew smoke into the wind, watching it unfurl as it floated out to sea. "France, Switzerland, Belgium, a little bit of Spain. I've spent the better part of the last two years going from place to place. I was in RAMC stationed in India, but I got shot and discharged."

"You don't say," Murray remarked, grinning to reveal slightly yellowed teeth. Too many cigarettes and not enough dental care. It was a fate John knew well. His own teeth weren't exactly pearly white these days either. "Just so happens you're looking at Colonel William Murray, mate."

"Captain John Watson." He saluted lazily, smirking to himself. "Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

Murray whistled. "Captain."

Chuckling, John clapped the other man on the shoulder and remarked, "Relax. No reason to pull rank." With a sigh, he tipped his head back and took a drag off his cigarette. He remembered why he didn't like them; they didn't taste all that good. But it would be a waste of a good cigarette if he just tossed it into the ocean half-smoked, and he wasn't so off put. Yet.

He tipped his head back down, and there was that man again. He looked even more ethereal in the daylight. High cheekbones, angular eyes of an indistinguishable color. In the daylight his hair was not as black as John had thought. He didn't quite know what to call it, though. It was brown, yet auburn, and yet neither. He was utterly intriguing. His clothing was also odd. It seemed to lay in a way that men's suits shouldn't; firm against his torso, like a lady's bodice. The sleeves of his shirt went well over his knuckles. His collarbone was exposed. It was a very odd-looking ensemble.

"And what about you, mate?"

"Oh, I'm not in the army. I taught. Well, used to. Part of the reason I've been traveling is because I lost my job a while back. I haven't traveled as much as John, though. Mostly around England. But I happened to meet up with John here in France. A few days ago. What was it, John? Last Wednesday? John? John?"

Mike's voice registered on the edge of his consciousness, but he figured Mike could wait. For right now, he was locked in a staring contest with the strange man on the upper deck. The man's eyes were not exactly meeting his own, but John could tell he was staring at him. It almost felt as if he was examining him. John, in turn, examined him. When they finally did meet eyes, John could see the pain there, even across the wide space between them. It was clear as day.

"John?" Mike chuckled, waving a hand in front of his face. John frowned, slapping Mike's hand away, but the man on the upper deck had taken the chance the turn away. His eyes trailed back once, but then there was another man, this one attired in something more traditional. He was dark-haired too; shorter but more firmly built, like John himself. He jerked on John's mystery bloke, taking him by the arm. John could hear him say, "I hope you're proud of yourself," from where he stood. Then they walked away, both looking unhappy and conferring in quiet voices.

"Hmm." Murray was staring in the same direction, although John figured their expressions were entirely different. "That's one of those feminized blokes. Don't see too many of those. Usually they're not allowed around unsupervised." He chuckled to himself.

"Feminized?"

"Oh yeah. It's what rich families do when they don't want their younger sons married off to gold-digging women, or when they're between a rock and a hard place and need some money themselves. They haven't been doing it for long, maybe only five years."

"I heard it has to do with eugenics," Mike remarked. "You know, if your son is girly, just turn him into one and pair him with a man so he can't have children?"

"Ay, true. Better to let fags marry fags."

"Oi!" John stood straight up and adopted a more commanding, in-charge stance. "Not around me, mate. Don't say rubbish like that."

Murray flinched and scratched the back of his neck, straightening up almost on instinct. He had the decency to look sheepish, at least. "Ah…sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

"Better you don't say it then, isn't it?" John remarked, crossing his arms and tilting his chin up. Murray was taller than him, by a good half foot, but being a captain in the army taught John how to stare down people he had to stare up at. From his change in posture, it was obvious Murray was feeling well-chastised.

"Ay."

Rubbing his face, John pelted his cigarette over the railing, excused himself, and set off for his cabin. It was only four o'clock, but he was suddenly exhausted.

Laid out on his bunk, John closed his eyes and tried not to think about the haunted eyes of the young man.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter; TBC<strong>

* * *

><p>There you go! An update on the 100th anniversary of the <em>Titanic <em>sinking. Obviously I was going to update today! It feels a bit rushed to me, and a bit fillery, but I'm not altogether unsatisfied, and I think the people who like the Holmes brothers and their interactions are going to like this chapter.

I post information on my Tumblr about my life and where I am in chapters of my active stories, so you'll know right away what I'm doing and if a chapter is going to be delayed. I also sometimes post previews. If you feel so inclined, follow me on Tumblr, where I am detective inspector narwhal. With no spaces, of course.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


	4. Chapter Three: And So, It Begins

**Chapter Three: And So, It Begins**

* * *

><p>Another day, another grueling evening. Sherlock, feeling sick to his stomach, barely ate. Lack of appetite still going strong. He pushed his food around his plate to create the illusion that he'd actually eaten, and had a staring contest with Irene Adler across the table. He refused to give in under her amused scrutiny, like some coy maiden. However, she pretended not to notice when he slipped some of his food onto Gregory Lestrade's plate when no one was looking (He could have slipped it onto James', but he was more likely to notice than Lestrade, who seemed to merely accept it as manna from heaven) and winked surreptitiously at him, so he gathered that she was not an enemy. Merely intrigued.<p>

Dinner ended at about nine, and a few of the men began to rise, making noises about retiring to the smoking room. Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to join them, despite his own need for a cigarette. It was not proper for a feminized man to mingle with the general male population. He would be left here with the women. In itself, it was not degrading; but rather what it stood for, that he was inferior, made him grind his teeth together.

Finally, James stood up and offered Sherlock a hand. He pointedly ignored it, still pushing his pudding around in its little dish. He hadn't taken a single bite of it, and where it had started as an attractive custard dotted generously with nuts, it was now a messy, gelatinous mass sitting sadly in the ramekin.

"Are you done, Sherlock?"

"Hmm? Oh yes." Sherlock looked up, smiled, and looked back down. Knew he would pay for this, if not within their time on the boat, then surely later when they'd arrived in America and Mycroft could not intervene. Right now, however, that seemed so far away and making James' life just that little bit harder was a very attractive concept.

"Would you like me to walk you back to your rooms?"

Mycroft's words from last night slammed into his mind; the growl of _he wants to _fuck_ you _and the cruel insinuations that went hand-in-hand with the warning. He dropped his hands into his lap and bunched the fabric on his knees between his fingers. Hands concealed by the table cloth so James could not see. Could not see the sign of weakness. Mustn't _ever_ show James a sign of weakness.

"No, I think I'll stay here."

"With the women?" James snorted, and Sherlock wanted to point out how grateful James should be that Violet Holmes had already retired. Was not in the vicinity and therefore not around to hear the disparaging remark. Didn't, out of sheer spite.

"_Yes_, with the women. I feel a certain kind of kinship with them, considering I've had _intimate _insight into the lives they lead." He scowled at James, refusing to break eye contact with him. He knew backtalk was a very bad idea, and increased his chances of punishment whenever James felt the urge to dole it out. He'd always been impulsive, though. Always volatile. It would be interesting to see how James would try to pry those traits out of him.

James rolled his eyes. "Oh for God's sake. Do what you want, I don't care." With that, James took off, into the milling crowd of people all rising from their chairs. Mycroft, who apparently remained just to make sure James did not succeed in putting any of his devious plots into action, extracted himself from his chair and bid a hasty retreat in the opposite direction, towards the Grand Staircase. Sherlock didn't miss the fact that not two minutes later, Lady Anthea rose to trace his steps. Sherlock snorted, the movement an equal combination of amusement and exasperation, and turned back to the table. Stared at the tablecloth.

There was only Sherlock, Gregory Lestrade (whom, Sherlock assumed, had not gone with the other men to avoid the temptation of brandy and scotch), and the ever-alluring Irene Adler left.

"Well they're going to have fun tonight," she simpered, devious smirk on her scarlet lips and elegant, long-fingered hands swirling her dessert wine around in its glass. Her piercing gaze, stormy grey and intense, alighted on him. Sherlock found himself roped into yet another staring contest, one during which Irene smirked and continued, "And what about you, Holmes the younger? Your fiancé seemed quite eager to get you on your own, and you blew him off. That's not very nice."

Breaking eye contact and thus losing the ocular battle of wills, Sherlock took his wine glass into his hand, took a large sip, and said, "I wasn't aware that my personal relations with my fiancé were any of your business, Miss Adler. In fact, I'm quite sure they _are not_ so if you would please refrain from sticking your impeccably-powdered nose where it does not belong, I would be much obliged."

A grin spread out upon Irene Adler's face. "You're so feisty for such a young thing, you are. Did they teach you all about female cattiness in Paris as well? How we rid each other of our self-esteem with three words, _you've gained weight, where's your husband_."

"Yes, where _is_ your husband, Miss Adler?" Sherlock folded his hands on the table, elbows upon it. Should his mother have been there, her face would have been twisted into that constipated look of outrage Sherlock knew all too well. "You're rather newly wedded, as I understand? Last…September, was it? I say this because the line where your wedding ring should be is not nearly as pronounced as it would have been had you been wearing it for more than a year, and certainly not enough as to indicate that you'd worn it during the summer months." Smirked. Leaned back and crossed his arms.

Apparently, Irene Adler was a hard woman to irritate or insult. Instead, her smile only increased. "Very _good_, young Mister Holmes. It's true, what you've just said. My _dear_ husband Edward and I have only been married since September the tenth of last year. However, he and I have decided it would be best for me to visit a relative in America for a while."

At this, Sherlock checked off one of the possibilities he had deduced for Adler being on the ship. "I knew something was off about that accent. How long were you in England?"

"Oh, a while…it all starts to blur together after the first few years." Her eyes twinkled mischievously. "I was fourteen when I came to that quaint little island, Mister Holmes. But you'll have to guess for yourself how long it's been since then. A lady never reveals her age."

"Fifteen years."

Surprise, but not affront. For all her putting on airs, Miss Adler was not a gentlewoman in a conventional sense. It made her entirely too fascinating.

"Spot on. I'm surprised." She smiled again and sipped of her wine.

"And this American 'relative' you speak of. A lover, I presume? A female one, judging by the engraving on the inside of your bracelet. _With love, xxx Carolyn_. Could be a sister, but unlikely considering the three X's. Almost always indicates a romantic attachment. And your husband. Off to visit his own queer lover? You've bought all of your jewelry yourself, which is strange for a married woman unless her husband is preoccupied with gifts for someone else and has no idea of what an acceptable choice in jewelry for a young woman is. Only two varieties of men exist that apply to those standards: those with incurable Oedipus complexes, as Freud calls it, and homosexuals."

Contrary to what Sherlock had expected, Irene Adler's glee did not once falter during his thorough dressing-down of her, and almost immediately she said, "Shush, young Holmes. You're going to make Mister Lestrade blush."

Gregory Lestrade, whom up until that point had been silent to the point where Sherlock almost forgot about him, quickly assured, "Oh no, I'm fine. This is the most interesting thing I've seen all week." He grinned lopsidedly. Sherlock would be lying if he said it wasn't at all endearing. He glanced at Sherlock. "How old are you, anyway?"

All of Sherlock's hackles immediately went up. Glared darkly at Lestrade. He hated being asked his age, because automatically upon announcing it, everyone's respect for him halved. Lestrade was still staring at him, however, unperturbed by the glare and obviously expecting an answer. Quietly, he grumbled, "Seventeen."

A low whistle exited Lestrade's mouth. "Christ, but you're young. But you don't look it at all, if you don't mind me saying. You're much more mature than those in your age group as well. When I was your age…Well," sheepish smile, "Let's just say I wasn't mingling with this sort of crowd, and having debates with the likes of Miss Adler here."

Sherlock certainly hadn't been expecting that. The praise that Lestrade so willingly offered. Most people Sherlock had ever encountered would have taken that as an opportunity to impart their own superiority upon him; make him feel menial simply because he had the audacity to be born ten years later than what they deemed acceptable.

"You're not of our social class, Mister Lestrade," Sherlock said. "With all due respect, you have no idea what it's like to grow up with the peerage breathing down your neck. It makes it very…hard to act my age."

Lestrade's smile faltered for a second, but Sherlock thought it had more to do with the idea of stolen childhood than any veiled insult that may have been implied. An insult probably wouldn't have affected him anyway; the man obviously had thick skin. Sherlock's respect for him went up a few notches. "Well, no. I can't say I do. Can't say I _want_ to. Do you all get engaged so young?"

"Women, yes. I count as one." An ironic smirk.

"How about your fiancé? How old is he?"

"Turning thirty in October, I believe."

A whistle exited Lestrade's mouth. Then he paused and said, "You _believe_?"

"We've only known each other six months, Mister Lestrade, and three of those I was away in France being feminized. Finer details like birthdates and favorite colors haven't really come up." Popped the 'P,' making Irene smirk.

"Wow. That's…"

"Depressing," Irene muttered from across the table, leaning on her elbow. "Really depressing. As far as I can tell, you've done _nothing_ to get yourself out of the situation. Consenting to the engagement, trooping off to France like a good little boy. _Yes darling, no darling, I'm feeling sick darling_. Honestly, it's disappointing, Holmes the younger, especially now that I know how smart you really are."

Sherlock was fully aware of his reddening face. It was equal parts embarrassment and anger, and for the first time that night, he truly resented Irene Adler. "I had no _choice_. Do you think I wanted this? Does _anyone_ want to be put through what's effectively public humiliation for the rest of their life? Who would consent to that? I certainly didn't. Unfortunately I'm seventeen—just barely, as my brother loves to point out—and a second-born son. I don't particularly _have_ very much free will, Miss Adler."

He paused for breath. Was uncomfortably aware that their conversation had attracted an audience, even if they were subtle about it. Parts of him wanted to let them stare. Others knew it would get back to Mummy, one way or the other. He leveled a glare at the closest gawkers, hoping to dissuade them from further prying. It seemed to work.

Irene waited for him to stop intimidating their fellow diners before saying, "There are ways to get out of it, you know."

Disbelieving snort. "Oh really? Pray tell, how?"

"There are ways to make yourself undesirable to him." One thin eyebrow on Irene's face lifts. "Start acting more like a man, for one. Ignore all of that fancy training they gave you in France. True, it would probably be social suicide, but you _really_ don't care about that, do you? And before you say it, I know. _Oh, what would Mummy think?_ Well, Holmes the younger, sooner or later you and your brother are going to have to detach yourselves from that woman's tits and start to live for yourselves. You can't hinge on her every whim for the rest of your life. You've got to take a stand and some point. And what's been keeping you from it? Cowardice, as far as I can tell."

Through gnashing teeth Sherlock said, "See here; that is uncalled for—"

"Close your mouth, you naughty boy. You had your fun and now I'm having mine."

Sherlock's jaw clicked shut. Couldn't believe he'd just been called a _naughty boy_.

"You're used to having everything done for you, aren't you? Used to not having to do a thing. If you go with that _lovely_ fiancé of yours, you'll be able to continue that lifestyle. But think. Will you ever be truly satisfied? I think not. You and me, Mr. Holmes. We're very much alike. Why do you think I came to Great Britain in the first place?" She smirked slowly and sipped the last of her wine. "You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and start _doing_ something about it. Remember what I said about making yourself undesirable? If you can put him off you, you've got a chance. You're young and pretty, and you need a serious attitude adjustment but I _think_ that might arouse him more than anything." Lestrade coughed. Adler and Sherlock ignored him. "You're also…_unknown_ in the biblical sense. All of it attracts him to you. He wants your money, sure, but he also wants _you_. You're a perk. The seal to the deal. I doubt he'll be very interested in your family's poor, failing company for very long if you fail to meet up to his expectations." Another smirk. "Why, just think about it. You could dissolve the engagement before you disembark from this ship, if you play the right cards."

Sherlock was not sure whether to be angry, impressed, or intrigued. Decided on righteous indignation and rose from his seat. "I am hardly standing by as my life disintegrates, Miss Adler. Quite the contrary, I think you'll find that I'm doing everything I can—"

"Are you? Are you _really_? Or are you just running trials?" Her eyes twinkled at Sherlock's widening ones. "It's time to stop warming up and play the game, Sherlock."

He had no response to that. Simply turned around and started heading away. Or tried. Gregory Lestrade grabbed his wrist, forcing him to turn around. Sherlock met the man's eyes, very wide and very brown. If not for the evidence of strife on his face, they would be what fanciful young women called 'puppy dog eyes.' In Lestrade's face, they were more a looking glass into all of his emotions. It disconcerted Sherlock more that he would have thought.

"Hey kid," he said. Talking as much with his eyes as his mouth. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I have an IQ of 180, Mister Lestrade. I never do anything stupid."

Lestrade's eyes rolled, and Sherlock couldn't help but think he'd just assisted the other man in proving a point. Annoyance tugged at his mind. Lestrade said, "You know what I mean."

With that, his arm was released. He spent a few seconds staring at Lestrade—what in the world did this man care if Sherlock made some sort of blunder?—before darting out of the dining room. Dodged waiters and passengers to get to the Grand Staircase. Climbed to A deck. Ran to his rooms.

Immediately regretted that decision because apparently that was the room Mycroft and Anthea had chose to otherwise occupy themselves in. Sherlock did not fancy the idea of an hour listening to the many grunts and groans of copulation. He braved it (Did _all_ men sounds like drunken bulls during sex or was that just Mycroft?) just long enough to find a pen and piece of paper, scrawl a note, and leave it where he knew Mycroft would see it.

_M,_

_Came back to fine you indisposed. Had no desire to stay. If needed, will be on deck._

_-S_

Determinedly ignoring the increasingly frantic sounds coming from the bedroom, he stuck the note in the skull's eye socket and fled. Mycroft detested the skull, but he would certainly notice something poking out of it.

His feet took him out of the upper class decks, down and into steerage. He passed a few people—An elderly couple out for a stroll, a father in steerage with his small daughter tailing along behind him—but no one paid him any mind. British through and through. He returned the favor, shouldering past them without so much as a word, hands shoved in pockets, head down.

Less and less lights illuminated the deck as he got closer to the stern, until at the railing there was one small gas lantern. He stood in its halo, resting his hands on the railing. Stared out at the dark night, ocean indiscernible from sky. Considered Irene Adler's words. Wondered how to make this engagement as much of a Hell for James as it was for him.

Mike and the two Swedes in their shared cabin were drunk. Completely, slobbering, falling down drunk. So were half the other people in steerage. As far as John had gathered, it was all due to a party going on in one of the lower decks. They were planning on having another one tomorrow night. John did not plan on attending. He wasn't much of a drinker himself, having seen what alcohol had done to his father and one of his uncles. He wasn't sure if such things were genetic, but wasn't inclined to find out. Mostly, he stayed away from the various vices he'd encountered.

So he went above deck and laid himself on one of the benches near the stern and stared up at the sky. The stars were endless, going on forever. Millions of tiny pinpricks. He was very sure there had never been this many stars in London. Or even in Switzerland, where the night sky was cold and distant but full of stars. Here it seemed closer somehow, though not necessarily warmer. John's continual shivers served as a perfect reminder of that particular fact.

Someone passed by his bench, but he didn't pay much attention. Simply glanced at them, then looked back up at the sky. Did a double take, because something about the profile seemed familiar. The subject of his gaze was already a few meters away—his long legs carried him much faster than John could hope to go at such a casual trot—but John was reasonably sure of who it was, even from the back.

_That_ man.

True John had only laid eyes on him twice in his life, but the distinctive hair and the frankly odd clothing (Murray claimed this whole 'feminization' thing was common but John had never seen it done before, and certainly never seen the clothes) were a dead give-away. No other person on the ship, to John's knowledge, dressed the same way. _Had_ to dress the same way.

John watched as the shadowed figure of the man progressed towards the stern. He leaned against the railing for a moment, pensive. John wondered what went on in a mind like that; one forced to go against its own nature. It must have been like war waging itself within his skull. John couldn't imagine a worse brand of torture.

It was at that moment that John watched in horror as the man climbed over the railing and sat down on the top rung, facing out at the sea. Stared down and held himself as far away from the railing as possible without falling head-first into the water. John wasn't so sure he didn't ultimately intend to do that anyway.

He tried to recall the instruction he'd gotten, briefly, on this subject in medical school. Not a lot was said about it, because so many of those people were so bloody Catholic, but he had one professor who was willing to educate on the concept of desperate people who took their own lives. Back then, John hadn't understood why someone would ever want to do that. Now, he understood perfectly. Understood the despair that could come with feeling as though your life had become something you couldn't live anymore. Was intimately acquainted with despair, anxiety, and the feeling of uselessness.

Anxiety, which he was feeling more and more as he watched that man sway with the movement of the boat, up on that railing. It didn't look like he was going to do anything soon, and part of John really did not want to get involved. At the same time, there was no telling what he would do if John didn't intervene. Or at least try.

So he did. Got up and cautiously stepped over, making sure to set his feet down overly hard, so as to alert the other man of his presence. It wouldn't do to startle him into letting go of the railing. He tried to think of what to say, something elegant that the other man's upper-class ears might deem worthy of listening to. Couldn't think of anything. Instead said simply, "You really shouldn't do that."

He swiveled alarmingly on the railing. John almost made an embarrassing sound. Managed to hold it in. When he managed to adjust his eyes to the man's features, he realized how much younger he was up close; Christ, he was young. Much younger than John. He'd always been a good judge of age, and the man—boy?—couldn't be more than three years Harry's senior. That would put him at eighteen. Nineteen at the very oldest. For some reason, realizing how young he was made John pity him all the more.

"I mean," John backtracked, as those eyes—green/blue/grey eyes; John had never seen such piercing irises—continued to bore into him. Shouldn't be letting himself be intimidated by someone at least five years his junior. Was. "Don't do…this."

Far from lightening his scrutiny, the young man scowled and his eyes seemed to bore even harder. "What?"

"Don't jump." John stepped a bit closer, now staring out over the eerily calm sea. He would have expected there to at least be a few waves, or some obvious sign that they were doing more than just floating in a star-filled abyss. "It's a long way down and you'll never survive it. If the fall doesn't kill you, the freezing water will. And if you do survive the fall, you have no _idea_ how painful your last twenty minutes of life will be."

Those eyes rolled back in their owner's head, obviously to outline just how unamused the other man was, and he turned back around. Now John only had the back of his head to stare at, all carefully-tamed brown curls tied with a silk ribbon at the nape of a long neck. John found himself wondering why his hair was so long, when usually it was seen as scruffy by the upper classes. Then remembered the so-called 'feminization,' and wondered if that was part of it.

"I'm not going to jump, you imbecile," said the man to the sea, and John had to strain to hear him. He was speaking loudly, but his voice was deep, deeper than normal for a man who was just barely a man, and didn't carry as well. "Do I _look_ like I would?"

It took John a moment to process the fact that he'd been insulted. Called an imbecile. It didn't sit well, not with a man who worked for years to get himself a medical degree and made his way to captain in His Majesty's Royal Army Medical Corps two years before average. Disgruntled, he said, "Well you _are_ hanging off the back of a ship there, mate." Not at all kindly. So much for good old Hippocrates.

A snort was emitted from the direction of the young man. "Believe me. While my sense of self-preservation may be flawed, I am not just about to throw myself off the back of a ship. I know exactly what happens when you freeze to death, Doctor. And, for the record, you were wrong to think a fall from this height could kill me. It may break my legs, but it won't kill me on impact. It would surely take me nearly twenty minutes to die, during which time my organs would shut down, hypothermia would set in, and I would become all but paralyzed." He paused. "But, as I said, I'm not going to jump."

John stood there, dumbfounded. Even forgot about his own anger. In its place was a kind of disturbed awe. No one of that age should know all of that. He certainly wouldn't want Harry knowing all of that. Then again, Harry was a woman. That just wasn't on. Finally, he said, "If you're not going to jump…why _are_ you hanging off the back of a ship?"

"Because sooner or later it will become apparent to my fiancé that I'm doing something reckless, and it will deeply annoy him."

"Sorry, your fiancé?"

"James Moriarty. Perhaps you've heard of him. His family was quite prevalent during the last Boer War. Their name was on all the guns." He said it wryly, as though his fiancé's accomplishments were something to be mocked.

"I've heard of the company. I was in the army."

"Joy of joys, a _military _doctor."

That reminded John that, yes, somehow this man he'd never talked to before knew he was a doctor. Had been. It had been years since he'd practiced. "Yes, how did you know that I was a doctor?"

"That's simple enough." He turned back around now, still clinging precariously to the railing but at least in a position to be caught if he fell. Didn't look like he'd do it, though. Not now. "You approach a complete stranger and ask that he not take his own life, even though you're of a different class _and_ you're British, both of which are counterproductive humanitarian efforts. You don't seem to care, however, so you've in some way devoted your life to such a cause. My first guess would be clergy, but you've not yet imparted on me God's word. I daresay if you had I might have thrown myself off this railing just to spite you. I detest the ramblings of the deeply religious. Therefore, doctor. I suppose you could have just been incurably optimistic or ridiculously young and foolish, but it's quite obvious you're none of those things."

"Oh?" It was the only thing he could manage to get out. He'd been properly dumbfounded and hadn't quite managed to string together an adequate response. Luckily enough, the man was much obliged to continue.

"Well, while quite stupid in assuming I was going to throw myself off this ship, you're not a _complete_ fool. You kept yourself a safe distance from me so as not to panic me had I actually been some desperate soul bent on self-destruction. You also have a medical degree so I'm assuming you're at least somewhat competent."

"Gee, thanks." He said it mildly, still put off but not altogether disgruntled. He was beginning to realize that the man dropped insults as second nature, not really processing that they might hurt the person he was talking to. John Watson knew how to take things in his stride.

"You're welcome." Either he hadn't sensed the irony, or didn't care. John was inclined to believe both were equally as likely.

The man swiveled on the railing, swinging one leg back over so he was straddling it. John wondered how in the world that was comfortable, but at least the danger of accidentally falling was smaller. He approached the railing, staring out at the dark ocean. Felt himself being watched, but didn't comment. Finally, he heard, "You're younger than you look."

"Am I?"

"Your face would incline someone to believe that you're in your thirties. But that's not quite true. You've just lived a difficult life. I'm assuming you spent a long amount of time in a hot climate, and an even longer amount of time not taking very good care of yourself. You were in India, weren't you?"

He grunted an affirmative. "There was a lot of stuff going on in and around Kashmir. They sent a group of us in to get the area under control. I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess you could say."

"That took several years off of your life. You were injured. Shoulder?"

Another affirming noise.

"And yet you limp. Psychosomatic."

"It's all in my head. Yeah, you're not telling me anything I haven't heard before." He glances over, smirks, and says, "That's still brilliant, what you did that. Very…impressive. How did you do that?"

"I observe. The tales of your life are told all over your face and your hands and the way you hold yourself when you walk and the watch you have in your pocket." Despite himself, John glanced down at the chain of his pocket watch, hanging out of his left trouser pocket. It was something his mother had given to him when he graduated from medical school. It was the only thing of real value, sentimental or not, that he had left. The man continued, "Most people _see_ but they don't observe. It's a crippling flaw of the human psyche."

John snorted and shook his head. "Christ, the way you talk. How old are you? Nineteen?"

There was a pause, then, "Perhaps." To John's dismay, he swiveled back around on the railing so he was once more fully facing the water.

"Mmm. Well, either way you're a bloody marvel." He turned, held out his hand. "Watson, by the way. Doctor John Watson, as you so intuitively pointed out."

"Sherlock Holmes. And that's not what people normally say."

"What?"

"That I'm a 'bloody marvel.' Their reactions are usually quite different."

"How do they react, then?"

"Usually they sniff and tell me to go be elsewhere." Sherlock Holmes' mouth quirked into a crooked smirk. It was endearing and made him look even younger. "It's the polite way of saying piss off."

That gave John a chuckle, and he leaned over the railing as he huffed out a laugh. He caught Sherlock's foot out of the corner of his eye. His shoe was odd. Didn't look like it had much of a sole. More like a ballet shoes than anything. The peculiarities never ended with this man.

"You know," he remarked, after a moment during which he stared at the water and Sherlock stared a hole into the back of his head. "For such a smart lad, you're doing a rather stupid thing. Hanging off the back of a ship like that." He gestured to Sherlock's legs, the only thing bracing him on the railing. He must have had superior balance, else he would have been tottering all other the place. "Not very smart if you ask me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm more than capable of keeping myself balanced. Besides, I told you—"

"Your fiancé, yeah. Why, if you don't mind me asking? You're doing this just to annoy him?" What a harmonious partnership that must be.

"Quite. You see, we play a fun little game, James and I. It goes like this: I do everything in my power to make myself a nuisance to him, and they get steadily and steadily worse until I've made myself so much of a bother that he breaks off our engagement, thus releasing me from the oppressive chains of betrothal and allowing me to stop all this dreadful feminization." He raises an eyebrow. "By the way, how do you know what feminization is?"

"What makes you so sure I do?" Stupid question, in hindsight; there seemed to be very little that Sherlock Holmes couldn't deduce from a simple once-over.

"You weren't surprised to hear I was engaged to a man. Obviously someone has acquainted you with the concept, because you're able to recognize a feminized man by his clothes and hair."

"There's…a bloke. On the ship. Murray, his name is." John shrugged. "Don't ask me how he knows. I don't really know him all that well."

"Hmm." Sherlock looked away, back out at the horizon. Shivered visibly. John could only assume that the thin fabric of his clothing was not very warm. He wished Sherlock would just swallow his pride and give up the attempt. Come down off that railing go back where he belonged, so John could go inside and sleep. As it was, he was unwilling to leave lest Sherlock suddenly fall. Under different circumstance, he might have wanted to stay. Sherlock was decent company and it was easy to talk to him, despite his condescending personality. However, it was late and John was tired, and he could hear his bed calling to him.

"Really, though. Why don't you come down off that railing? You're not going to prove anything, not tonight. It's late. Your fiancé is probably in his bed. That's where you belong too. Christ, that's where _I_ belong." He yawned, realizing just how tired he was, and hoped the drunks sharing his cabin had at least fallen asleep. Tomorrow morning wouldn't be fun, what with half of steerage hung over, but that was tomorrow.

"Why don't you just leave?" sighed Sherlock. He shivered again. "_You're_ not proving anything either, and you obviously want to be somewhere else. Just leave, you have no obligation to me."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, unfortunately. I have an oath to uphold, and if I let you stay here by yourself being reckless, that's a gross violation of that oath. I've involved myself and I can't walk away now without knowing you're not putting yourself in danger." He watched Sherlock shiver again, and rolled his eyes. Took off his coat. "Take this, at least. My clothes are a lot thicker than yours. Wouldn't do to have you freezing to death."

Sherlock stared at the coat, seeming dubious. John simply shook it in his face, raising an eyebrow, and eventually Sherlock took it. Wrapped it around his shoulders and, after a moment, sunk into it. Buried his face in the collar up to his nose.

"There you go." John almost patted his back, the way he did Harry. Almost. Sherlock probably would not have appreciated it.

All John could really see was his eyes, and it was a bit unnerving. They examined him, stared _through _him, until Sherlock finally said, "You'd really stay here all night just to make sure I didn't hurt myself?"

"Well, I figure at some point I'd probably drag you of the bloody railing myself, but yeah."

"You're an idiot."

John smirked. "For the record, I'm still not the one hanging off the back of a boat."

Sherlock sighed and carefully lowered his feet onto the bottom rung of the railing, then turned his body back towards the ship. John held out his hand, and Sherlock took it. His hands were longer than John's but thinner, and were cold to the touch. The sooner Sherlock got inside, the better.

"There you go," John said. He had to crane his neck up to look at Sherlock. The man was naturally taller than him, it would seem, but the extra four or five inches from Sherlock standing on the railing made the difference overly pronounced. "Come on now. Up you go."

The next few seconds were confusing for both and John couldn't exactly recall what happened. One moment Sherlock was there, raising his left foot to step up, the next he was gone, out of John's sight, hanging off the railing by one hand. Dragged John with him, bending him in half over the railing. He screamed, seemingly involuntarily.

"Hold on!" John commanded, trying not to panic. Did anyway. "Hold on, Sherlock. I've got you."

Sherlock was gasping, trying not to look terrified. John wasn't sure why, considering anyone in their right mind _would_ look terrified, hanging by their hands twenty meters above freezing water. Pride was a deadly sin for a reason, he figured. Either way he knew he had to somehow get Sherlock back over the railing. Also knew that his shoulder was not what it used to be and was already screaming in pain.

"John," Sherlock breathed harshly, as though there was no air in his lungs. "John, please. I don't want to die."

"I know, I know." It was disturbing, because that was almost the same thing he'd whispered to himself, to no one, to God, as he lay bleeding out two years ago. He tried pulling Sherlock up, but his shoulder was having none of it. He said, "Okay, listen carefully. You're going to have to pull yourself up and grab onto the railing. Can you do that?"

"I think so."

Not the most positive answer, but it was as good as he was going to get. Bracing himself, he said, "Okay, pull yourself up. Now, come on."

Sherlock moved one hand up to grip John's forearm and grunted as he pulled himself up. Managed to grab onto the lowest rung of the railing with one hand, then the other. John fixed his hands under Sherlock's armpits and _tugged_, managing to pull him up and over.

They fell, in a heap, on the deck. Sherlock was gasping, John was breathing hard and thanking God that he hadn't just had to watch a young man fall into the unforgiving Atlantic Ocean. It didn't occur to him how compromising their position was—Sherlock flat on his back, shaking, spluttering, and John laying half atop him. Didn't occur to him until two young crewmen, not much older than Sherlock, ran up with lanterns.

"What's all this?" demanded one of them. Shined a light over Sherlock, prostrate, shaking. John, kneeling over him. Drew his own erroneous conclusions in his head. Bellowed, "Get away from him! Stay back!"

John drew a hand over his face and hissed, "Shit."

Sherlock curled further into John's jacket and tried to block out the world.

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><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

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><p>Could everyone please give a warm welcome to Unconstant? :D She's my new beta, and she's doing a fantastic job. She's going to be helping me with this story and Unlocking Sherlock, and she's also the primary reason why the historical inaccuracies in this chapter are practically nonexistent! :D Anyway, she's brilliant and amazing and I hope to have her for a long time to come~<p>

(She also got this chapter to me superamazingly fast, so extra props to her!)

I know it took me almost two months to get this out. I really hope that doesn't happen again. School got in the way, but as of Wednesday I'm off for the summer and, due to my unsuccessful attempts to find work (Everyone had their auditions literally the day before I started scouting) I will have quite a lot of free time.

Unlocking Sherlock will be started sometime this weekend, and hopefully will be out the weekend after that, provided I get it done and Unconstant isn't too busy.

The next few days I'll be working on a one-shot I've tentatively titled To Kill For. It's an assassin AU, so if that's your think keep your eye out. :) Estimate on the length is anywhere between 20000-25000. As you can see, it will be truly epic.

As always, feel free to follow me on Tumblr, Detective inspector narwhal (No spaces.) and feel equally as free not to. :)


	5. Chapter Four: The Boy and His Dog

**Chapter Four: The Boy and his Dog**

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><p>Several times while they were waiting for the Master-at-Arms to arrive, John tried to speak, to plead his case. But the two stewards merely glared at him and told him not to dig his hole deeper, so eventually he just sat back and dropped his head into his hands. Looked through his fingers at Sherlock, who didn't seem inclined to help John get out of trouble. He was still laying there buried in <em>John's<em> jacket, legs pulled up tight to his body. Not speaking a word. Not moving. Maybe not even breathing, it was hard to tell.

Then again, John would probably be catatonic too if he'd just been through a shock like that.

After what seemed like an impossible amount of time, stewards breathing down his neck, the Master-at-Arms appeared, along with two men. Both were obviously upper class, although that ended their similarities. One man was short, dark-haired and dark-eyed. He was taller than John, but not by much, and far less stocky. He had the look of a man who had been short and thin his entire life, and certainly held himself as if to make up for it. The other man was tall, possessing dark hair that probably would have been lighter had it been brighter on deck. As far as John could tell, he was rather thin as well—although he could also tell from the way his clothes fit him that that had not always been the case.

A third man lurked farther away. Tall, built, grave expression. Blonde or perhaps light brunette. It was hard to tell; he was keeping himself in shadow. John wondered if he was part of the assembled group or a mere onlooker.

"That one," said one of the stewards, pointing a finger at John. "Found 'im on top of the other one. 'e was screamin' 'is 'ead off."

All John could do was sigh as the Master-at-Arms frowned at him and advanced, winding his arms behind his back and placing a pair of handcuffs on him. Said, "What's your name, boy?"

"John Watson," he replied, irritated to be called _boy_ although, he supposed to the Master-at-Arms (a man probably in his late fifties, by the looks of him) a man of twenty-six _was_ a boy. He just wasn't used to being recognized as being his age anymore. "And this is all a misunderstanding."

"In what way?"

"Well, I…" He was sure the others didn't notice it, but Sherlock's head twisted towards him at that moment, and his green eyes narrowed. John's mouth immediately snapped closed, even though he knew the only way to convince them what had happened would be to tell them what Sherlock had been doing on that railing. For some reason, he couldn't get the words out. His mouth worked for a moment, but nothing came out, and the Master-at-Arms seemed to take that as proof enough. He tightened the cuffs.

One of the men—the shorter one—took a step forward and said, "Were you putting your hands on my fiancé, you dog?"

So that was James.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't talk to me like that," John said, instead of replying to the question. Not in the slightest because he didn't know how to answer it. Probably would have said something along the lines of _Well yeah but if I hadn't he'd be in the Atlantic Ocean right now_ but that probably would be a very bad idea.

The man smirked. It was not one of amusement. There was something dark in that expression, something terrifying that John couldn't put a name to. He didn't think he'd ever seen evil, but if he had to fathom a guess as to what it would have looked like, James Moriarty's visage at that moment would have been it. Even the Master-at-Arms took a step back, letting go of John's wrists and grunting—either in disapproval or alarm.

"How," he said, stepping forward. There was a hitch in his step, a kind of bounce. As though he knew just how intimidating he was being and took joy in everyone's discomfort. "Do you expect me to talk to scum like you, hmm? Because that's how people of my class talk to people of yours."

Irish. He was Irish. Before he could stop himself, John said, "Would you like to know how we in England talk to Micks?"

Now Moriarty did look furious. He stepped forward, grabbed John by the collar, and said, "What did you just say to me?"

From behind Moriarty, John heard Sherlock say, "James!" and tried to see around the slightly taller man to see if Sherlock had finally dragged himself out of his torpid state. He had, and another man—the taller one whom arrived with James—was bending down and offering him a hand. John saw now the resemblance Sherlock had to this unknown man. Same nose, same eyes, same almost disproportionally long arms and legs. Sherlock ignored the hand in favor of glaring at Moriarty's back. Said, "James, stop."

"Look at me, not him. He's not the one addressing you." Moriarty shook John roughly, forcing his eyes back to him. "What makes you think you have the right to speak to me like that, hmm?"

"James!" Sherlock bellowed it that time, bringing himself out of his sprawl on the floor and finally grabbing the hand being offered to him. He stood up and grabbed Moriarty's shoulder, turning him around. "James, stop it. You're embarrassing yourself."

It was clear there was no affection lost between the two. Sherlock had not one ounce of sympathy for James, despite the slur John had just sent his way. Moriarty looked as though he might have pushed Sherlock away and continued harassing John had the other man—the taller one, the one that had a very apparent familial resemblance to Sherlock—not taken that moment to say, "Perhaps you should listen to your fiancé, James. I'm sure the Master-at-Arms is perfectly capable of disciplining this man."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, "He doesn't need disciplining. He's not guilty of anything, except saving my life."

Moriarty stared at him incredulously, glanced between Sherlock and John. The other man didn't look surprised at all, although whether that was because he actually wasn't shocked or because he was good at hiding such things, John couldn't even begin to decipher.

"What," the as-of-yet unnamed man said, "in the world were you doing that would require your life to be saved?" He seemed more exasperated than worried. John could only assume this had not been the first time Sherlock had done something like this.

"Sitting on the railing."

An all-suffering sigh. "And why were you doing that?"

"None of your business, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped, effectively naming him—John thought he must be a brother—and prompting him to snap his mouth shut, if only so he could more effectively glare. Sherlock, undeterred, continued, "I lost my balance and began to fall, but I caught myself on one of the lower rungs. Thankfully, Doctor Watson was in the vicinity and heard my screaming, or else I may have fallen to my death."

Now all eyes were on John, trying to equate the image of the man they'd crafted in their heads—unkempt, lower-class vagrant—with the persona of hero and, more importantly, Doctor.

"Is that how it happened?" The Master-at-Arms said, and John nodded—if only because Sherlock was staring at him in such a way that said _I will do painful things to you if you don't agree_.

Subsequently, he was uncuffed and the Master-at-Arms made a happy noise because, after all, it was probably good that he wouldn't have to do the paperwork that was required for an arrest at sea. John rubbed at his wrists, surprisingly sore from only being in cuffs for five minutes, and looked up to make eye contact with Sherlock. Gave a little smirk. Sherlock looked down, but John could tell by his eyebrows and the corners of his eyes that he was smirking as well.

"Well," 'Mycroft' sighed. "That was…eventful."

"Perhaps you should keep a shorter leash on this one," the Master-at-Arms suggested, gesturing towards Sherlock. It was said in jest, but it made a scowl twist onto Sherlock's face and his fists tighten on the flaps of John's jacket.

"He's almost more trouble than it's worth," Moriarty drawled, trailing his eyes over Sherlock. John did not like the way his focus traveled over Sherlock, but it was not his place to say anything. Wouldn't have had the chance to, anyway, because James soon took off with only the words, "I suppose I can trust you to look after him, Mycroft."

"Quite," Mycroft uttered stiffly, eyes narrowed as he followed Moriarty's progress. John stood by awkwardly, staring at the two brothers (he was pretty sure they were brothers) until finally, Sherlock cleared his throat. James did not turn around, but John wasn't sure that was the goal. Mycroft took his eyes off Moriarty and said, "What?" in Sherlock's direction.

"I think," Sherlock replied, loud enough for Moriarty to hear even as he continued to walk away, "that we should give Doctor Watson some compensation for his services, don't you?"

Moriarty ignored him, as John had well expected him to; he gave not so much as a snort in recognition of Sherlock's statement. Mycroft, on the other hand, pursed his lips and muttered, "Yes," whilst pulling out his purse. Held out a twenty pound note clamped between his index and middle fingers and said, "I trust this will be a satisfactory reward for your actions, Doctor?" He had a pompous look on his face, the likes of which John had seen on many an upperclassman.

It was obvious Mycroft was not doing this out of the kindness of his heart.

"No, actually. That's okay. I don't need your money." He did. He really did. He had no idea how he was going to support himself in America and a twenty dollar bill was like a goldmine. But he was not about to take it out of the hands of someone who stared at him like he was a well-behaved child, or a dog that had just done a particularly amusing trick. In the choice between pride and fiscal security, pride won.

Mycroft had other plans. He tucked the twenty into John's breast pocket and said, "Oh, but I insist. I'm afraid it would be terribly rude of me to leave you unrewarded for your heroic deed, and indeed rather rude of you not to accept it." He raised an eyebrow and stepped back, then glanced at Sherlock.

He looked as though he had just swallowed a lemon. John almost laughed.

"It's interesting to know that my life is worth a mere twenty pounds to you, Mycroft."

Now Mycroft looked as though _he_ had swallowed something particularly sour. John tried to snort subtly behind his hand, and shared a smirk with Sherlock when he realized the other man had noticed. Mycroft was busy ruffling his metaphorical feathers and saying, "What do you want me to do then, Sherlock?"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, examining John closely. John shifted uncomfortably under his piercing gaze, not used to the feeling of being dissected from the inside out. It wasn't the first time he'd been the subject of Sherlock's gaze; he had been that first night he'd laid eyes on Sherlock, and several times that evening alone. He wasn't used it, though; couldn't fathom that anybody could get used to such unusual eyes drilling through them as though reading all their secrets. It was disconcerting and exciting at the same time.

Finally, Sherlock said, "Have you ever experienced a ten-course meal, Doctor Watson?"

John's brows bunched towards each other. "No."

"Would you like to?"

"Sherlock, I don't think…"

"I don't care what you _think_, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped venomously. Mycroft did not look at all surprised to have such disrespect turned his way, but John was more than a little shocked. The brothers glared at each other, and John did not know what to say or what to do, other than stand there and wait for one of them to make the first move. From the long wait he had to endure, he could only assume they did this quite often and were reasonably immune to each other's will.

Mycroft said, "I believe my brother is inviting you to dine with us in first class tomorrow night, Doctor."

"Oh," John said. He had figured as much, but still had no real reply. Continued, "Well, I suppose it would be _rude_ of me not to accept." Found a wicked seed of pleasure in his stomach at flinging Mycroft's words back at him. It earned him his own unpleasant look from the taller man, but it was inevitable.

"Well," Mycroft said. "It's all settled then. We'll see you tomorrow at supper, Doctor." Turned on his heel and headed forward. Sherlock remained planted, staring at John, until finally Mycroft snapped, "Sherlock!" over his shoulder, when he was already well out of sight, and Sherlock began to creep towards the shadows.

John said, "Your nanny is calling you. You should hurry."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up, and then he was gone. John dallied on deck for a moment, staring at the dark water—at the ten feet of it that were visible from the lights on the boat—and at the dark of the night. It really did feel like they were floating in the middle of a star field.

It was cold. He went inside and lay down in his bunk, the drunken snores of his roommates filling his senses.

Took him a while to realize that Sherlock had walked off with his coat.

* * *

><p>The room was dark and Mycroft was snoring next to him. The bed was large, but it was still irritating to have to be sharing a bed with his older brother—something he hadn't done since he was about seven and could actually tolerate Mycroft's presence for long periods of time. One would have thought that, considering the expense of the cabins, the White Star line could deign to shove two beds into the same room. Thankfully, Mycroft did not roll around in his sleep, so Sherlock got a reasonable portion of the bed without having to touch any part of Mycroft.<p>

But it was cold; it made him ache. The blankets on the bed were not warm enough, and he wouldn't know where in the room to search for more. Mrs. Hudson had already gone back to her second class cabin for the night.

Eyes open, he stared at the dark room. Curled into as small a ball as possible and tried to warm himself through sheer force of will. It didn't work—he hadn't really expected it to—and with a huff of agitation, he rose from the bed and wrapped his dressing gown around himself. Lit a candle and walked into the parlor.

He turned on the lights when the door to the bedroom was closed and glanced around the room. Picked Yorick up off the mantle and sat down in an armchair, placing the skull on his knee. Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson had eventually given up trying to get him to move the skull sometime yesterday afternoon. Not that he would have moved it had they nagged him the entire voyage, but it was relieving to have the lack of complaint.

He stared at the fireplace. He would have lit one, but he didn't know how.

The thought made him begin to realize just how sheltered he'd been all his life.

So he sat in the dark. It was a bit warmer in the parlor, due to it being an inside room of the ship, while the bedroom had an outside wall. He began to doze, staring at the empty eye sockets of the skull on his knee, until he registered the sound of the doorknob being turned. He lifted his head up off his shoulder and stared at the door.

It creaked open to reveal James. Sherlock sat up and pulled his dressing gown better around him. Said, "I'll call for Mycroft. You're not supposed to be alone with me."

James smiled in a way that was supposed to be comforting. Was actually quite a good impression of it, and Sherlock may have fallen for it had he not been disillusioned long ago to James' charms. As it was, he knew it was just a façade. As were most of James' emotions.

"I'll only be here for a moment."

Sherlock didn't believe him one bit, but he was certainly intrigued. So he didn't call for Mycroft—although it would not stay that way if James tried something. He gestured to the chair across from him. James chose to perch himself on the arm of Sherlock's own chair instead. He had something in his hand—held under his dressing gown. It had a vague rectangle shape, and was large. He said, "I have a surprise for you, my darling."

A muscle above Sherlock's eye twitched at the endearment. He said, "How did you know I was awake?"

"I'm only across the hall. I can hear you shuffling around in here. The walls aren't thick." He pulled his 'surprise' out from underneath his dressing gown, revealing it to be a large, dark blue box. Opened it up. Nestled inside, amongst something that looked like black velvet, was a large necklace. At first, he thought it was just a piece of costume jewelry. Then he processed the distinct luster of the blue gem—the depth of color—and couldn't help himself from inhaling sharply.

"That's a diamond," he said. He had never seen one like it, but it had to be a diamond. He'd never seen a sapphire in such a deep blue. And it _was _deep—so deep that it became very nearly black in the center. It was an oval shape, and it recalled something to Sherlock's memory—something he read a long time ago. Remembered it like a picture in his mind. He couldn't tell if it was because there had actually been an accompanying picture or because the text had left him with such a thorough impression, but he knew he had seen it before.

"Very astute observation," James complimented. Continued, "It used to belong to Louis VXI. In French it's called _l'œil de la mer_."

"Your pronunciation," Sherlock muttered out of sheer spite, "is horrible."

James leaned down and smiled, inches from Sherlock's face. He tried not to show it, but his breath sped up. James could be repulsive and manipulative, but he was also charming and, at times, enticing. He wanted to blame it on James—say that the reaction his body was in the throes of was some sort of mind control. If only he were more ignorant in the ways of the mind.

"Do you want to teach me how to move my tongue?"

The hair on the small of his back stood up, and not completely out of disgust. He furrowed his brows and said, "Piss off."

James' seductive expression dropped to become something rather more sinister. He leaned back and said, "The stunt you pulled tonight wasn't appreciated."

Relieved to have James once again at a distance, Sherlock spat, "Do I _care_?"

"You should. You forget, Sherlock; I hold your entire future in my hands. Whether or not you and your family have anything to call your own this time next year completely hinges upon _my_ family's money, and what I do with it. Your fate is entirely dependent upon _me_."

Sherlock pulled himself out of the chair, arms crossed, and moved to stand in front of the fire. Back to James, still able to watch him out of the mirror in front of himself. His fiancé came up behind him, the necklace in his hands. Stopped just behind Sherlock and hooked his chin over his shoulder. "If you would only accept me. We could be perfect together. Don't you realize how compatible we are? There's nothing we couldn't manage, working together towards the same goal." He smoothed his hands over Sherlock's waist. He wished he could say his skin crawled only out of repulsion. "Stop fighting me, Sherlock. This game will be much more fun if we play it on the same team."

He thought for a long time, trying to come up with a retort. Couldn't find one. Instead, he looked down at the mantle, past it at James' hands on his waist. It would be so easy to just lean back and accept it, to let James take what he wanted. It would be so simple to submit himself to the malevolent brilliance of James Moriarty. For a second, he _wanted_ to. Somehow, though, he stopped himself just short and said, "What…what does that necklace have to do with me."

"It," James said, and now let go of Sherlock's hips, brought the necklace up and set it over Sherlock's collarbone, took the chain behind his neck, and fastened it. "Is your wedding present."

Although feminization and actual femininity were not the same, Sherlock dared not mention that the style of the necklace was decidedly unmasculine. Only said, "Why are you giving it to me now?" Their wedding was not for three weeks. One week of transatlantic travel, two days traveling from New York to Boston, days of tux fittings and meetings with planners to make sure everything was just perfect. After that, they were set to honeymoon in France, a bill that James' father was generously footing. Five to six days from now, Sherlock would disembark Sherlock Holmes. Two weeks later he would recross the ocean on another ship—_Olympic_, _Titanic_'s sister ship—as Sherlock Moriarty.

He detested the sound of it.

"Because apparently, you need to relearn where you belong." James' cool forefinger traced around the gemstone resting on Sherlock's clavicle, barely brushing Sherlock's skin. It tickled. They both stared at it in the reflection from the mirror. Next to Sherlock's ear, James said, "You will wear it, Sherlock."

"It's heavy," he protested, must breathier than he would have liked. He could see the smug glimmer in James' eyes. He thought he was staring to break through; get down the fleshy underside of Sherlock's thick hide.

Terrifyingly, Sherlock realized that it may be true.

"You'll get used to the weight," James murmured. "So used, in fact, that you'll feel naked without it. You'll feel too light, like you've been set adrift. Someone like you needs to be anchored, Sherlock. I want you to think of me as your anchor. Hence the necklace." He pressed his lips against Sherlock's neck. It sent electricity shooting along his shoulders and down his back. Sherlock huffed out a breath and closed his eyes, fully aware that James could see his reaction in the mirror.

"Goodnight," James murmured, slipping away and quietly out the room.

Sherlock, shaken, eased himself into the same armchair James was just sitting in, stared at the skull sitting on the end table, and ran his hands across his face.

He didn't know what to think anymore.

* * *

><p>"Morning."<p>

The cultured accent assaulted John's senses as he came out the door leading on deck. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, looking incredibly casual and out of place, especially considering the clothes he was wearing. They seemed to be a bit more casual than last night, although granted John really didn't know what 'casual' looked like in Sherlock's case. The coat had smaller tails and there were no long cuffs. The strange collar was also absent. It almost looked like a normal gentleman's attire, aside from the close fit around his torso. It was always reminiscent of a woman's bodice.

He had the strangest inclination to reach out and knock on Sherlock's stomach to see if it made a _thunk_. Resisted the impulse.

"Hi," he said slowly. Stared at Sherlock for a minute, waiting for him to start explaining, and when he didn't deign to, John asked, "Why are you in this part of the ship?"

"First class has access to all areas of the ship." That didn't really answer his question, but he supposed he would take it. Sherlock was mysterious in his ways; John had known it since the first time he saw him, half in shadow on the first class promenade deck.

Something was shoved into his line of vision and John looked up to see it was his jacket. Made a surprised, but pleased sound and took it from Sherlock. Said, "Thank you. I was wondering if I was ever going to get this back." It was quite obvious now why Sherlock was mingling with the commoners, and he fully expected him to turn on his heel and head back to his own part of the ship.

He did not.

"Um." He glanced around, trying to figure out why Sherlock was still standing there. "I'll go put this in my cabin."

Sherlock gave an absent nod, and John fled back inside. His cabin was rather far into the inside hallways, and down a flight of stairs. He thought surely Sherlock would have left by the time he got back outside, and for a minute he considered staying inside for a few minutes longer. But the air downstairs was stuffy, and he had a bit of a craving for a cigarette. Probably could have ignored it, but he had no desire to and there was really nothing to do _but_ smoke. Smoke and talk.

Surprisingly—irritatingly—he was still there, still leaning against the wall, still squinting into the sun. John considered the ramifications of just walking past him, but decided it would be rude and stood there, shifting uncomfortably. Finally cleared his throat and said, "Are you here for a reason other than my coat? And other than just because you can be?"

"You have questions," was all Sherlock said, not even bothering to look at John.

So they were going to play that game.

"Um."

"Well, let's go then." Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and walked off, heading starboard towards the stairs to the upper deck. John stood there, utterly confused, and realized he had no choice but to follow.

"Where are we going?"

Sherlock huffed a breath out through his nose—not exactly a snort but close to it. Said, "I already told you that."

"When?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

John furrowed his brows. "I was inside a few minutes ago."

As though surprised, Sherlock looked at him with his eye brows raised. John realized quite quickly that he actually _was_ surprised. Had Sherlock really not noticed his absence? Apparently so, because Sherlock then said, "Were you? Oh, I didn't even notice. Hmm. No matter, we're going to the promenade deck." He seemed quite confident in the decision; as though he was sure it would not be contested. John had to wonder if he was self-centered or just very absentminded.

"Yeah, okay, you do that."

Sherlock stopped and turned around, furrowing his brows at him. For all he'd looked very young last night, in the daylight and in his element, Sherlock Holmes was a very formidable figure indeed. He said, "You _are_ coming," and it was obvious that it wasn't a request.

It wasn't going to work on John. He'd been in the army, and seen much more forbidding people than Sherlock Holmes. He was all bark and no bite—and John had seen men that would bite your head off just for looking at them the wrong way. He wasn't fazed. "In case you hadn't noticed, I don't have free reign of the ship like you do. Promenade deck is for first class only, remember?"

This earned him one of those piercing stares, the likes of which he was getting strangely accustom to. He didn't even shift awkwardly, as was his wont to do, and instead stood his ground. He knew he was right in this case, and no amount of mental prodding from Sherlock would make him lose said ground.

"I wish to speak with you, and I don't wish to do it here."

John raised his eyebrows. "Why? Can't bring yourself to mingle with the, ah…dogs? Isn't that what your fiancé called me?" He knew it was a low blow, that Sherlock couldn't be held responsible for what his fiancé had spewed at John the night before—but then again he'd been making a lot of those lately.

True to form, Sherlock gave a snarl and hissed, "The opinions of my fiancé are not my own and I would _thank you_ not to get them confused again, Doctor Watson."

He backed off, but only just. Said, "Why do you want to talk on the promenade deck, then? If privacy is what you want, you're not going to get it up there—or down here for that matter." If privacy was what Sherlock wanted, they would probably have to find a less-traveled corridor to talk in. Not that he'd like to be found in such a compromising position with another man's fiancé—a very _powerful_ other man's fiancé—but they would get no privacy on any outside deck.

"Privacy is not what I'm after, and in saying that I think you doubt the great lengths people of my class will go to in order to be completely ignorant to certain things. No one wants to stick their hand where it doesn't belong, lest they get bitten by a stronger beast." He raised an eyebrow and continued, "I just feel it would be better to talk upstairs. Now, if you would please, Doctor."

"No, really. Tell me why we're going up there."

He could see Sherlock's jaw tighten as, presumably, he gritted his teeth together. "There's no particular reason."

"Obviously there is. Tell me." He couldn't really tell at that point whether he was being so persistent because he actually wanted an answer, or because he got some sadistic joy out of watching Sherlock squirm. Probably a mixture of both. But really; he very much did not want to put himself somewhere where he did not belong and risk confrontation. The last thing he needed was another debacle to get the attention of the stewards.

Sherlock's hands formed fists at his side and he hissed, "Are you always so infuriating?"

"Are you always so petulant?" John countered, using the skill of looking down whilst looking up as only a short military man knew how. They stared at each other for a moment, each trying to stare the other down.

Sherlock gave up first.

"By now my family will have realized I've left, and perhaps will have realized who I'm with—it presumably won't take long, for Mycroft at least, if they haven't already. Thus they'll be looking for me in the lower class cabins and decks. The last place they'll look for me will be the upper class areas, not only because you shouldn't be allowed up there but also because it's the last place I'd be found under _any_ circumstances. I hate crowds and people-watching."

That made sense, once John thought about it. Yes, that made a lot of sense. It also brought into focus a possible reason for Sherlock's behavior last night—removing himself as far as possible from people to think. Didn't expect John to come out of the blue, thinking him a potential danger to himself.

Then again, he most likely _was_ a potential danger to himself.

"But there's still the thing about how I'm actually _really_ not allowed up there."

"Your clothes are decent enough that people may take you for second class, rather than third. If anyone asks, I'll tell them you're the family physician. I doubt they will though—for reasons I've already given you." He straightened his jacket, and John's eyes were once again drawn to his stomach. The impulse to brush his knuckles over the green fabric of the jacket and see if it was flesh or whale bone underneath was almost unbearable.

"Are you wearing a corset?" John demanded before he could stop himself.

Sherlock chuckled. "No. Thankfully I have this figure naturally, or I _would_ have to wear one. My waistcoat is padded to _smooth my lines_. So Mummy says."

"And those shoes," John said, remembering them from last night. Glanced down to ensure that Sherlock was actually still wearing them, and yes he was. A different color, but the same style. They weren't quite ballet shoes; they went all the way up his instep and seemed to have a bit more structure to them than the typical slipper, but they had practically no sole—from what John could tell—and were made of some very thin material. "What are they about?"

"James is shorter than me by about three inches," Sherlock replied. "I can't wear anything to accentuate that height difference. That rules out most men's shoes."

John whistled lowly, shaking his head. "You've gotten yourself into a right mess, haven't you?" He decided he might as well go along with Sherlock's crazy scheme and started up towards the promenade deck. Held open the gate at the top for Sherlock and closed it behind them. There weren't many people outside that early in the morning—it was sometime after ten o'clock—and it went far towards easing John's mind.

"I didn't get myself into this mess," Sherlock said, with a bit of heat that made John think he'd hit a sore spot. "I was placed into this mess by my family long before I even knew what was happening. I trust you know the basis of feminization? Why it's done?"

"Well…not really. Like I told you, I only know about it from a bloke I was having a cigarette with the other day." He paused, then added, "We were talking about you, actually. You were, ah…standing over there," he pointed to where the promenade deck overlooked the stern, "and my mate Mike—he's the one I'm traveling with—he and I were trying to figure out why you were dressed so strangely. Bill explained, and he had some theories on why it's done, but…well, I won't repeat them to you." It still made him a bit angry, in the back of his head, to remember what Bill had said.

"Well I would assume you were talking about me. I believe I'm the only feminized man on the ship." He watched as John took out a cigarette—he'd forgotten about them, what with the argument with Sherlock—and said, "May I?"

"Hm." John handed over the box, pulled out his lighter—technically Mike's—and lit one, then leaned over to light Sherlock's. Put both back in his pocket and took a long drag. The nicotine began to calm him almost instantly, even as he coughed a bit on the exhale.

"You don't smoke," Sherlock murmured, in such a way that John wasn't sure he was fully aware that he was speaking aloud. He got the feeling that, sometimes, Sherlock didn't actually realize what did and didn't make it past his filters.

He shook his head. "No, I don't. But when in Rome, you do as the Romans do—and most of the men on this ship are Romans."

Sherlock held his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger—like a man. John didn't know why he hadn't been expecting this, but there it was. He watched as Sherlock took a drag, long and deep—definitely not an amateur—and said, "Christ, I've needed a cigarette for days." He wasn't expecting the swearing either—but then he had very little room to talk on that front.

"How long have you been smoking?"

"Off and on since I was…oh, twelve. Father started smoking and I copied him."

"Your father," John said. "He's dead, isn't he? That is, if you're from the Holmes family I think you're from." He'd spent a while last night trying to remember where he'd heard the name Holmes, and the only thing he could bring to memory was an article in a newspaper discussing the death of an English businessman by the name of Holmes. It had been in French, and he wasn't incredibly good at French, but he'd gotten the basic information.

"He is, and I probably am."

John stopped talking for a moment—purely out of consideration for what to say next. There were a thousand questions all queuing themselves up in his head, and it was more than a little difficult to organize and condense them.

"Is that why you were feminized?"

This was one of the questions Sherlock had been waiting for—John could tell by the momentary hitch in his step, and he thoughtful pull he gave to his fag. He said, "Yes and no. It's related but not the direct cause. You see, my father was an only child, and so was his father. The only possible heir to the corporation was my brother. And he's not a business man. The corporation can't survive without a strong head—it's been failing ever since my father's suicide. They immediately started grooming Mycroft to take on the company after my father's death, but their efforts are proving fruitless and the company is in jeopardy. The only possible solution is me. Namely, my marriage to James Moriarty."

"And if you don't marry him?"

"My father's company collapses in on itself in three years' time and my family loses all its worldly possessions."

There was a moment of silence, then: "Suicide, you said?"

"My father had what they call melancholia. He struggled with it his entire life, and I suppose it just became too much for him in the end."

John had heard of melancholia. Mental maladies were not his expertise—he was a surgeon—but he had read enough to know about it. To know how it could make a man a living vegetable, unable to engage or feel emotion, or get any joy out of life. You could live with it, but you couldn't thrive.

"It's said to be hereditary," Sherlock added, quietly. John chose to act as though he hadn't heard him.

They walked on.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: Hey everyone! I'm so sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. My schedule just got a little bit full there for a few weeks, not to mention my beta went on vacation-but that's not her fault. I was on vacation at practically the same time, so it worked out. :)

I'm wary of the middle scene in this chapter, although hopefully you guys enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I think a bit of my repressed Sheriarty shipper escaped there.

Unlocking Sherlock will be updated ASAP, although how long ASAP constitutes depends entirely upon how busy I am, and how busy Unconstant is. Hopefully you'll get the next chapter by the end of the week, but I'm making absolutely no promises.

Thanks so much for reading!


	6. Chapter Five: A Walk Round the Village

**Chapter Five: A Walk Round the Village**

* * *

><p>Frankly, Sherlock was a bit surprised that his brother had not managed to find him by three o'clock that afternoon. Allowed himself to fathom that perhaps Mycroft had realized he wasn't five anymore and didn't need a chaperone. It was unlikely, considering feminized men were considered just as in need of chaperones as women, and women in turn were just as in need of chaperones as five-year-old children. However, when John took out his pocket watch and said, "It's gone three o'clock already," Sherlock counted his blessings, whatever they may be.<p>

"Didn't think I would avoid detection for this long," Sherlock remarked. By this point he had lost count of how many times they had passed the landmarks on deck; the lifeboats, the door to the gym, the edge of the promenade deck that overlooked the lower decks, the signs every hundred feet or so that said 'A deck' in bold lettering. Things tended to blur together when doing endless laps around the same 160 meters of deck on a boat in the middle of practically nowhere.

It was almost disconcerting, when he thought about it. The fact that all 2000 people on _Titanic_ were utterly alone with each other out in the middle of the Atlantic. No land for miles in either direction, no people, just them. Just a small hodgepodge of all sorts of people floating about together on a pond.

Somehow, out of a literal floating village, Sherlock had managed to find John Watson. For that, he was grateful.

"So," John said, sliding his pocket watch back into its designated place and reassuming the hands-in-pockets position he'd been walking in more or less the entire time. John had a way of making it look casual, not lazy, impressed Sherlock who, on the other hand, walked with his hands folded behind his back, or else on his waist, arms akimbo. Slumping would have made him look shorter, but was inelegant and was frowned upon. "Was there something particular you wanted to talk about, or did you just drag me up here to have a chat?"

The completely honest answer was that, yes, there had been something specific he wanted to talk about, but he'd forgotten it. Sherlock decided that giving this answer was not an option, and instead said, "Well, first and foremost I sought you out to thank you. It was a…truly, it was a heroic thing you did. There are very few people who would have involved themselves in the way that you did, especially considering the ordeal you went through because of it."

The corner of John's lips quirked up in a small smile, not bashful but not smug either. It was a kind expression. Sherlock wasn't used to kindness, especially not that so easily read. He kept that thought to himself—he was very adept at that—and listened to John as he said, "I can't imagine why. I wasn't just about to let you fall, and I couldn't have known that it would end up like that."

"I'm afraid my rabid screaming didn't help much," Sherlock remarked, although more amused that genuinely apologetic.

John—good, humorous John—seemed to find it amusing as well. He chuckled and said, "Well, there's very little else I would have expected from someone hanging off the back of a ship. Screaming your head off is kind of the typical reaction."

"Mmm. Still, I caused you undue strife." He took a pause, gave a discontented snort, and added, "Although, if those imbecilic stewards had taken more than five seconds to examine the situation, they would have realized that you weren't trying to take advantage of me." He rolled his eyes and grumbled, "You're practically the only person _not_ trying to take advantage of me. My mother, my brother, James…In different ways, of course. No less tedious, though."

Shaking his head, John smiled slightly and said, "Lord, but the way you talk."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "How do I talk?"

John shrugged and said, "You're just…so casually disrespectful. I would never say about my family the things you say about yours."

"You would if you were put in my situation."

"Well…" John stretched out the word, shrugging his shoulders. "Yeah, probably. But you've got to think; how many people are going through what you are on this ship, and they're not walking around cursing everyone involved?"

"I told you, I'm the only feminized man on this ship."

Laughing, John shook his head. It wasn't one of his kind laughs; more exasperated than anything. Sherlock furrowed his brows. John continued, "No, I mean…people who are being forced into lifestyles they don't want, or people who want to run away but don't know where to go. You act like you're alone, but you're not. You act like…like you're the only person that's ever had to go through this, and you're acting like it was an _easy_ decision for your family to make. I can guarantee you, it wasn't. No mother ever wants to do that to her child."

"It didn't seem to be a very hard decision for my family to make," Sherlock snapped. "Who are you to say otherwise? You don't know them. You spent five minutes in my brother's company last night and you think you know how my family runs itself? My father is dead. Mycroft is the patriarch. Mother is the matriarch. I get no say, because I'm the second son. I'm practically property; they tell me what to do and I have to do it."

They stopped. John leaned back against the railing and Sherlock stood there, arms folded and face cross. The look on John's face was not unkind, but it was not forgiving, either. Sherlock could not locate a word that accurately described it, but if he had to come up with an approximate, he would say _commiserating._ But it wasn't for Sherlock. It was almost as if he was sympathizing with an unseen third party.

"Well I could say something to that," John remarked, "but you wouldn't like it."

"_What_?"

"Welcome to the life of a woman." He said it quietly, mildly. Perhaps it was the simplicity with which it was stated, because many other people would have said it as an accusation. John, however, said it as a statement of fact, and Sherlock's mind fairly reeled.

Trying to retain the upper hand, Sherlock said, "They're turning me _into_ a woman. Don't you realize how humiliating that is?"

"Yeah, I know," John assured. "I know how terrible it can be to be turned into something you're not. But perhaps if it's done enough to men, they'll start treating women better."

"How do you know? You're not a woman. You're not married, and it's unlikely you ever have been. Being a medical student and then a soldier leaves very little room for romance, as far as I can tell." He knew he was being petulant and immature, but it was very hard to find a leg to stand on, a way to defend himself, when John's argument was so strong. He'd always known the men of his family to have a misogynistic streak, but he never thought he shared in it.

It was hard to be made aware of your own faults.

"Let's just say…I knew a girl, a _woman_, and…she opened my eyes to a lot of things. Turned me around and made me see things from a woman's perspective. There are women all over the world—probably even on this ship—that go through what you do, and they have even less of a leg to stand on because they _are _women. They've never known what it was like to have the privilege of a man, and all their lives they've been walked over by society, taken for granted by their fathers, rejected by their mothers, _just because they're women_."

Sherlock looked away, unable to meet John's earnest eyes anymore, and stared out at the sea. He muttered, "What does the M stand for?"

"What?"

He gestured to the sketch book John had been carrying around. "M. Morstan?"

John glanced down, as though he'd forgotten what was under his arm, and a small smile graced his face. Wistful. Sherlock felt a noxious emotion rise in him, unidentifiable. He wanted to turn John's attention back to him, keep him from dwelling on the happier thoughts he was entertaining. Suddenly, he wished he had never mentioned it.

"Mary," John said eventually. "Mary Morstan. She, ah…She never put her full name on her drawings and paintings because she would send them to art dealers anonymously. Apparently, they had a habit of sending them straight back if they were done by a woman. The habit kind of carried over to everything else; she always signed her name that way."

It was clear as day on John's face that he thought the world of this 'Mary.' This only made the uncomfortable feeling in Sherlock's stomach rise. He said, "She's the woman."

"Pardon?"

"The woman you were speaking of a moment ago."

"Oh. Yes, she is. She was…she was unbelievable, is what she was." The way John said it implied that being 'unbelievable' was not synonymous with either 'good' or 'bad.'

Sherlock said, "Is what why you have her sketchbook?"

Laughing, John shook his head. "No, God no. She never would have parted with an entire sketchbook. She gave this to me when we met; said she didn't sketch that much anyway, and that I should have it. She caught me doodling one day and decided it warranted a sketchbook of my own. I was so broke that I couldn't feed myself at the time, much less buy art supplies. It, ah, it has my name on it, too. Inside the cover, see?" He brought the book out from under his arm and flipped it open. The front page was blank, for reasons Sherlock couldn't quite decipher, and on the inside of the leather cover was _John H. Watson_ in neat, simple scrawl.

"H?" Sherlock questioned.

"Hamish," John said. "My dad's name."

"Mmm. Gaelic?"

"Yeah, Scottish. I was born in Edinburgh, but I can't remember it. We'd moved to London by the time I was three."

There was silence for a moment. Sherlock stared at the sketchbook in John's hands. He hadn't pegged him as an artist; not with his military and medical history being so easily readable in his eyes and the wrinkles in his face and the way he held himself. He'd never head of an artistic army doctor. Then again, it could be said that while people chose habits, talent chose people. He had no problem believing that John was talented with his hands. A surgeon always was.

Yes, a doctor could be artistic. Someone skilled could wield a scalpel, carving into human flesh and leaving scars like a chisel cut into marble, leaving designs. Scars left by doctors told stories just as easily as the renderings of painters. John's hands could tell stories in so many different ways. Sherlock wondered what marks they could leave on him.

It was only when John tapped his shoulder and said, "Hello?" that he realized John had been trying to get his attention. Furthermore, he realized where his thoughts had been headed. He was unwittingly reminded of last night with James, his loss of control and the impulses that had risen up in him, unbidden. There had to be something wrong with him.

John laughed, amused at Sherlock's reaction, and said, "Where did you go?"

"I didn't move."

Another chuckle, and John said, "No, that's not…" Then, apparently thinking better of it, he waved his hand and said, "Never mind. You seemed to be thinking pretty hard. What about?"

Sherlock cast about for an acceptable answer. Glanced down at the sketchbook, starting point of the treacherous path his thoughts had been headed down, and said, "I was thinking…I'm not so sure how good of an artist a military man could make."

Instead of puffing up like expected—men of John's persuasion were always far too defensive—John half smirked and said, "Oh yeah?" and Sherlock was reminded that men of John's persuasion hardly ever possessed John's disposition, either.

"Yes. Perhaps I could judge if you'd…let me see them?"

John bit his lip and chuckled. Glanced down at his sketchbook and said, "Well, I mean…If you really want to, of course. I mean, they're not spectacular or anything." He cleared his throat, glanced around, and jerked his head towards a pair of unoccupied deck chairs. Sherlock stared at them, attempting to discern what John meant by that, until the other man took him by the arm and walked him over to the deck chairs. Even this move created parallels between John and his family. John guided him, didn't grip him tightly and drag him.

"You're a bit…spacey, sometimes. Did you know that?" John turned towards him, sketchbook on his knees, and opened it slightly. Not enough for Sherlock to see any of the drawings, but enough to tell which drawing was which. Obviously he was looking for an acceptable one to show Sherlock. He flipped through several before he finally reached one. Flipped it around and said, "Here."

Sherlock pulled the sketchbook onto his own lap and opened it further so he could see the entire drawing. It was rather simple, a drawing of a woman from the back, her dress flapping in the wind. She had a large hat atop her head, held on by her hand lest it be whipped off her head in the fray from the wind. Although the drawing itself was simple, the details were intricate; the folds of the woman's airborne skirts, the ribbons on her hat and in her hair being twisted by the gale, individual locks and strands of dark hair stirred into a flurry, even the texture of the lace on the hem of her dress and in her petticoat. Sherlock almost wanted to touch it, but did not for fear of smearing the charcoal.

"If this is what you call unspectacular," Sherlock murmured, "I'd love to see what you think of as the opposite." Eager to see more, he grabbed the corner of the next page and began to flip it over, only for John to stutter, "Ah, no! Don't…" and take the sketchbook back.

Or try, anyway. Sherlock had a good grip on it, and neither wanted to rip it. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, smirked, and remarked, "Do you have something you want to hide, Doctor Watson?"

As John sat there, mouth moving but no noise coming out, Sherlock gently pulled the sketchbook from his loosened grip and continued his intended perusal of the book.

Immediately, he knew why John did not want him to see the drawing. It was a woman, lying on a bed amid rumpled sheets. She had not a stitch on her, although a corner of sheet snaked between her legs and provided some modesty. Her breasts, however, were fully revealed. She didn't seem to care or even know that she was the subject in a drawing. She was propped up on her elbow, staring out a window. The artist—John, it must have been—seemed to be sitting across from her at a very slight angle. The pure simplicity of the scene reeked of more intimacy than Sherlock had ever seen in art galleries. He muttered, "This is…"

"I warned you," John muttered. His left eye was doing something funny—like one side of his face was wincing. It seemed, to Sherlock, like he was warring with himself; the proper medical and military man, and the unapologetic artist.

Sherlock smirked and gave a slight chuckle, bowing the top of the sketchbook when a pair of strollers passed. He flipped through a few more pictures, and it took him a little while to realize that many of them were of the same woman. Slowly, he said, "This is Mary."

"Hmm?"

"This woman. You've drawn her several times. It's Mary, correct?"

John gave that smile again, and again Sherlock felt an unpleasant weight in his stomach and chest. He said, "Yeah, that's her. She's not got model looks, Mary, but she was perfectly fine with…sitting still for hours on end, or stripping down to nothing."

"She's not particularly…beautiful," Sherlock muttered, flipping to the next page. Also of Mary, this time in a pair of knickers standing next to the same window from the first drawing. "Her features aren't what one would consider…traditionally attractive." She had a mass of red hair that seemed to be an almost sentient presence, falling artlessly over her shoulders and down her back, and her skin didn't appear to be unblemished, although it was hard to tell in a black and white portrait. And yet, John had managed to capture something almost ethereal about her.

"Are you asking why I drew her so many times even though she's not…some great beauty?"

Chuckling humorlessly, Sherlock said, "No, I'm fully capable of discerning that."

"Oh?"

Looking up, Sherlock said, "You were in love with her, obviously."

For a moment, John did nothing. Did not say anything, nor move, nor breathe. Sherlock began to suspect that he had gone too far, was trying to come up with a way to make amends when John took a deep breath in, released it in a sigh, and said, "Yeah, uh…good guess, that. I was. She…she was everything to me. Absolutely everything. I only knew her for a few months, but…she was like learning how to breathe air again. I mean…do you get what I'm saying?"

"No," Sherlock replied. No reason to dance around the point.

John smiled sadly. Remarked, "No, I suppose you wouldn't. You're really too young, aren't you?"

Trying not to take affront, Sherlock chose not to comment on this and instead said, "She rejected you?"

"Ah, yeah."

"Can't imagine why," Sherlock muttered, turning back to the sketchbook. "I mean, sure you're not exactly a prime cut, but you're certainly not grizzle off the bones, either."

A slightly explosive chuckle came from John's direction, and Sherlock looked up, confused at the obviously involuntary ejaculation. John shook his head, looking for all the world as if Sherlock had told the best joke ever written, and laughed, "Let's just say…she wasn't exactly a meat-eater," before breaking into more giggles.

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what he meant by that, before he realized the implication. He could feel his eyes widen, and John only laughed louder, presumably at Sherlock's face. It was a nervous kind of laughter, a 'laughing so I don't cry' kind of laughter, but it was contagious, and Sherlock found himself laughing right along. It was too loud and too obnoxious for the setting they were in, and strollers glared at them as they passed, but neither cared. Sherlock hadn't laughed that hard in a long time. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he laughed this hard.

Once he had calmed down a bit, Sherlock flipped to the next page, and his eyes widened. This was different from the others—particularly because it was a man. He was leaning against a wall, arms resting behind his back, casual. Thousands of freckles dotted his skin, from head to toe. The drawing was not overly sexualized, but it was much more so than the chaste drawings of proper art galleries. He blinked hard and quickly flipped to the next page—a safe one to leave it on as he set it flat on his lap, a drawing of a little girl and a puppy. Sherlock scratched the back of his head and murmured, "Apparently you _are_ though, Doctor."

"What?" John looked wary, although Sherlock didn't know why. It would have been terribly hypocritical of him, a feminized man, to be disgusted with him for enjoying the presence of other men.

"A meat-eater," Sherlock said, with a smirk tagged on. It earned him another nervous laugh from John, and he refolded the sketchbook and gave it back to John. Tapped it and said, "Those are…quite good, Doctor Watson. Actually, they're somewhere close to superb. You're very talented. Don't forget that."

John stared at him for a long time. Eyes narrowed, looking almost lost. Finally, he said, "That's the same thing she said to me. Mary, that is. That's what she said to me. 'You're talented, John. Don't forget it.' She made me promise that I would keep doing it, drawing, even if I found work in America."

"When did you leave?"

"Two weeks ago. It's been less than a month, but it feels like a lifetime since I've seen her."

"Do you still love her?" Sherlock was fully aware that he should keep such questions to himself, but he was insatiably curious about John and his past, even if certain parts of it were uncomfortable for him to hear. He'd already decided that if John would open up to him, he would open up to John in return. But he was not one to make the first move.

John shrugged and sighed. Stared at the floor for a few minutes until he said, "You know…things like that are fickle. You're quick to fall in love, quick to fall out. She was precious to me, and I think I'll always remember her, always care about her. But at some point you've got to decide what's best for you. I think being on this ship, making this journey, has been good for me. She's in Europe, I'm going to America. Logic says I'm never going to see her again." He tilted his head to the side and murmured, "You've never had to make decisions for yourself, have you?"

In reply, Sherlock merely displayed his hand. The large diamond upon it. Staring at it, he remarked, "My mother introduced me to James Moriarty on my seventeenth birthday. Three months later, we were engaged, and I was off to Paris to be feminized. I had no say in the matter. Had I said no, I would have been disowned by my family, at the very least. I'm beginning to think it would have been a better prospect."

John reached out a hand and took Sherlock's, staring at the diamond. Sherlock's skin tingled where John touched it. He had no idea why. Looking up, John said, "You told me, last night, that you're trying to get your fiancé to break off your engagement."

Pulling his hand back, Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at the water. John started to backtrack, say, "No, sorry, I didn't mean to pry," but Sherlock held up a hand, silencing him. He said, "I wasn't myself last night. I had gotten myself into a particular mindset, and…I wasn't thinking straight."

"Were you drunk?"

Sherlock chuckled. "No, just…Let's just say I was under the influence of some a particularly convincing argument which, although logical under certain circumstances, seems an unattainable goal in the light of day."

"Mmm."

Gesturing to John's pocket, Sherlock said, "Do you have another cigarette I can have?"

John nodded and pulled out the pack, handing one to Sherlock. Lit a match and leaned over to light it for him, then got up to toss it out into the ocean. Sherlock stood up next to him, and then they were walking again. They took two laps before either of them said anything, and when someone again did speak, it was John. He said, "So they sent you off to Paris to be feminized. Are you from Paris, or do they just only do those things in France?"

"A bit of both," Sherlock remarked. "There are only a few feminization instructors who are credited with really knowing what they're doing, and two of them are in France. The other one is in America, New York, and my mother didn't want to remove herself that far from my father's ailing company and its affairs. Thus, we went to France. It was also convenient because my mother's family home is in France. She's French, not my father."

"Well with a name like Holmes, I assumed as much." John grinned, and nudged him. "Do you speak French, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. Raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"You should say something."

"Like?"

Shrugging, John laughed, "I don't know. Anything you want. I can't speak French. Insult me, if you like."

Sherlock stared at him for a moment, deciding what to say. Eventually, he muttered, "_Vous avez sauvé ma vie_…_En plus de manières que vous connaissez."_ You saved my life, in more ways than you know.

John grinned. "What did you say?"

For a minute, Sherlock considered telling him. Considered telling John that he'd saved his life in more than one way last night. That he'd given him back his hope in humanity. That, for the first time in a long time, he had _laughed _today, and it was all thanks to John Watson. That even though he'd probably never see John again after dinner this evening, he felt he would remember him for the rest of his life. But he didn't know how to say all of that; wouldn't even know where to begin. So instead, he simply said, "I insulted you."

"What did you say?"

"I…called you short."

A snort, and John said, "That's not very inventive; I got called that in school."

Sherlock shrugged and smirked. "Well, you asked."

John nodded and replied, "Yeah, I suppose I did." He smiled down at the floor and muttered, "I spent a lot of time in Paris, you know. I learned some of the language." He raised an eyebrow, and although he didn't mention it outright, Sherlock _knew_. John didn't continue, however, just said, "It's beautiful, Paris is."

"I didn't get to see most of it," Sherlock said. "From the time I began my training to the end of the first course, I wasn't able to leave the house. It would have been indecent, apparently. I used to go there a lot, with my mother when I was young. Before my father's condition worsened and we stopped going to meetings with other wealthy business men and members of the peerage. I wasn't old enough to remember the last time I really _saw_ Paris."

It took a few minutes for him to become aware that John was staring at him with an odd look on his face. It wasn't pitying, and it wasn't fascination; it was somewhere between. He said, "I could show you lots of places, you know. In Paris. It takes a street rat to know all of the really good places."

"Well that's a relief; the last thing I need is another trip to the Eiffel Tower, or another dinner somewhere advertising the best food in France, when it actually means _most expensive_."

John vehemently shook his head. Excitedly, he said, "No, I mean…there are some great places no one even thinks to visit. Beautiful buildings that no one even thinks about looking at. The people are the best, though. You never know who you might meet, what stories they'll have to tell. The culture is just fascinating. When you get away from all the…pompous shit, if you'll pardon my language, the world really shows you how beautiful it can be."

"And you would show me the big, beautiful world, John?"

Reaching out, John squeezed his upper arm and said, "I definitely would, if I could."

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Why can't you?"

"I'm sure you know the answer to that."

"The answer to what?"

Almost quickly enough to give himself whiplash, Sherlock spun around and came face-to-face with his mother. She was with three other women; the Marquésa of Morella, a woman named Helen Turner that Sherlock vaguely recognized from varying social functions, and Irene Adler. The Marquésa and Mrs. Turner stared at him, curious and uncomprehending, while his mother stared right through him. Irene was at the back of the group, obviously unwanted, and she smirked at him and raised an eyebrow. He ignored her.

"Nothing," was all Sherlock could come up with, even though he knew 'nothing' was the worst possible way to answer a question. To stop his mother from dwelling on it and possibly making some deductions of her own, he added, "Mummy, this is Doctor John Watson. I'm sure Mycroft informed you of the events from last night?"

Mummy grunted the affirmative and held out her hand. John shook it, not overly vigorously but obviously nervously. Sherlock's mother was not impressed, and he knew John could tell. It was hard _not _to notice when someone was staring at you as though they wanted to squash you like a bug. Mrs. Turner made a cooing sound and murmured _how brave_ while the Marquésa smiled and asked him to tell the story. Before John could get swept away in the story, Sherlock said, "Well, Doctor Watson will be joining us at dinner tonight. Mycroft invited him, to thank him."

"Mycroft, really," Mummy remarked, and it was not a question. She knew as well as he did that Mycroft did no such thing. There was practically a statement of _really, you can do better than that_ in the way she said it. Sherlock tried his best to ignore her.

"Yes." Sherlock tilted his head to the side. Tried to stare his mother down. As he had predicted, it didn't work.

Down the deck, a trumpet-wielding steward played the signal that dinner was in an hour. All around them, people rose and started heading back to their rooms, the women especially. Mrs. Turner made a vague noise and excused herself to her rooms, and Mummy nodded vaguely. She was still staring at John. Sherlock determinedly did not look at him; mostly for fear that his mother would be able to read something in his face if he did. Instead, he said, "Shall we go dress, Mummy?"

Without taking her eyes off John, she grunted an affirmative. Looped her arm through Sherlock's. Only once they were heading away did Sherlock glance back. When he did, John winked, and Sherlock felt a furry of activity in his lower stomach.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me."<p>

John looked up, away from Sherlock's retreating form, to meet a pair of eyes that were remarkably similar to the ones he'd just taken his own off of. They belonged to the woman who, up until a moment ago, was standing behind Sherlock's mother, observing the proceedings with a strange kind of glee. She was now about a foot from him, leaning against the railing and giving him an amused stare. He cleared his throat and said, "Yes?"

"Do you," she said, "Have any idea what you're about to walk into?"

Chuckling nervously, he licked his lips and rubbed the back of his neck. Said, "Ah, no. Not at all."

She shrugged and said, "Credit for being truthful. I'm sure you realize you can't walk into a first-class dinner looking like that?"

John glanced down at himself and said, "Um, yeah. I tried to mention that, but Sherlock wouldn't listen."

"So it was him that invited you." She said it as though she knew it all along. John was beginning to doubt anyone had believed Sherlock's 'Mycroft did it' lie.

"Have you met Mycroft? Because I certainly have, and it wasn't for very long but I'm sure he's not the kind of person to invite third-class passengers to first-class dinners - even if they have just saved the life of his brother."

She laughed and said, "No, you're right. I've never seen two people who were such polar opposites while supposedly coming from the same woman." She raised an eyebrow and added, "Although, I've seen my fair share of polar opposites when it comes to…partnerships, if you will."

Immediately, John took up to offensive. Took a step back, narrowed his eyes. Asked, "What are you implying?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure you know the answer to that."

"He's engaged."

"I know." She leaned forward and muttered, "That's never stopped anyone, Doctor Watson." Then, leaning back as if the last section of their dialogue had never happened, said, "I'm Irene Adler, by the way, and I'm about to make you _very_ glad you met me."

"Oh?"

She smirked. "Yes. I'm going to stop you from making a fool of yourself in front of some of Britain's finest."

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

So it looks as though this story is going to be longer than anticipated. The events of this chapter and the next one were originally supposed to be condensed into one, but it got away from me a bit (It's been happening a lot lately, unfortunately) and now there are going to be two chapters where there should have been one. But I'll try to have it done as soon as possible. I'm really, honestly trying to haul asshole as much as I can so I have a good amount of story for you guys before I (Assumingly) go MIA for a while in November and early December. I'm not saying I'll be missing, without fail the entire month, but updates will be slow or possibly nonexistent during that time period.

Speaking of MIA, Unlocking Sherlock is going to go on a tiny hiatus until the end of November. I know it's already gone on one, but I really must pick a story to focus on if I want any of them done within the foreseeable future (Not only because there are some things I really want to work on, but also because I need to do some plotting on Unlocking Sherlock) and that story can't be Unlocking Sherlock because the rate at which I want to post chapters would be very bad for the intricacies of that plotline. So, I'm really sorry, but it has to happen.

Anyway, I know this chapter was slow, but it's going to speed up next chapter. Two chapters, I think, until 'draw me like one of your French girls' also known as 'The chapter which may finally drive Maggie to insanity.'

Thanks for reading! Also, thanks so much to my beta, Unconstant—it keeps slipping my mind to credit her, but she really does do some amazing work and my stories have improved probably one-hundred percent since she became my beta. She's great, really.


	7. Chapter Six: Polished like a New Penny

**Chapter Six: Polished like a New Penny**

* * *

><p>"Who was that man?"<p>

Sherlock looked at his mother, tipping the cigarette (John's cigarette; taken from his pack and lit for him by John) aloft in his hand. He could still feel John's gaze on the back of his neck, even though John had long since looked away. The imprint of his gaze remained; a warm feeling at the back of his neck, like James' kiss the night before. The shadow of it lingered on his skin, a guilty temptation. He felt as though, if he touched the back of his neck, it would be warm.

It did nothing to cure his confusion.

"I told you, Mummy. That was Doctor Watson. He kept me from falling overboard last night. Did Mycroft not tell you what happened?" He innocently puffed of his cigarette. Mummy frowned, took the fag out of his hand, and tossed it overboard.

"What have I told you about _smoking_?" she snapped, and Sherlock new the cigarette was not what truly had her upset. The reaction was completely unwarranted for the mere deed of smoking, and if Violet Holmes was anything, she was not dramatic; especially in a large crowd of people.

Nevertheless, Sherlock was not in a mood to humor his mother. He rolled his eyes and replied, "That it's a disgusting habit and something I shouldn't indulge in. Yes, mother." He narrowed his eyes and, in French, muttered, "Now perhaps you could tell me what you find so unfavorable about Doctor Watson and stop haranguing me for smoking."

"Coy obliviousness is not a look that suits you, Sherlock," she snapped back, also in French. Dusted her hands off, even though she did not, to Sherlock's vision, have any ash on her fingers. She continued, "You know exactly _what is wrong_ with Doctor Watson, Sherlock, and I think you know better than to behave like…like _this_. You know you aren't allowed around on your own anymore. Not without a chaperone. You can't just walk around with a man who isn't your husband or brother."

"I was just walking with him!" Sherlock spat loudly, and though they were conversing in their first language and likely very few people who were around were fluent in it, Mummy still shushed him. He shut his mouth and grimaced at the floor. Bunched his hands at his sides and allowed his mother to drag him through the door to the inside hallway. What he wouldn't have given to retaliate; to shout at his mother not just in French, but in English. To embarrass her and give her an idea of what it was like to be _him_.

(Unbidden, John's words from earlier returned to him. _Welcome to the life of a woman._

For the first time in a long time, he looked at his mother and saw not a tyrant, but a hardened survivor. This was the life she had been living since she was his age. She knew what it was like to be him.

It was nothing short of an epiphany.

But when he looked back up, unclenching his hands and unscrewing his face, ready to face his mother as an equal rather than a repressed prisoner, all he saw on her face was disapproval and anger. All of his hatred rose back up, and he forgot in the flood what it was that made him think she could ever understand.)

"Don't you realize," she hissed, "That there is no difference between being seen with another man in public, and fellating him in the middle of a crowd?"

Against his will, Sherlock's jaw dropped. He had never heard his mother speak in such a way. He hasn't even known she knew words like that—up until a moment ago, that is.

"Mother!" he gasped, more out of shock than anything. He wasn't scandalized, not really. Ever since the conversation with Mycroft the night _Titanic_ docked in Cherbourg, he had been determinedly telling himself that the idea of sex did not alarm him. His plight had increased vigorously since last night.

He was not, he told himself, scandalized that his mother used such words. Sex did not alarm him.

"People will talk, Sherlock," she said. "I am just trying to protect you from a potentially dangerous situation. You're not just a man anymore. You're feminized, and you need to at least make an attempt to _act _like it."

They'd reached his mother's rooms, and she leaned against the wall and sighed. Then she seemed to realize what she was doing and stood up straight. Set her hands on Sherlock's shoulders and looked at him like she hadn't done since he was a small child. He distinctly remembered it from when he was suffering from Scarlet Fever when he was six.

It was the look of someone distancing themselves. Preparing to let go of something they loved. It was the most human look he had ever seen cross his mother's face.

He had recovered from Scarlet Fever, but he could see very few ways out of this situation.

"I'm telling you what my mother told me," she said. "Keep your head low to the ground, and all your toes in line and you'll be able to live relatively freely. It's only when you misbehave and lash out that people become suspicious. Don't give them reasons not to trust you, Sherlock."

"Live freely," he snorted. "Father was a very different man from James Moriarty, Mummy. I can't imagine him allowing me to 'live freely' in any definition of the term. He'll let me live well, yes, but in case no one ever told you, Mummy: living is not the same as thriving."

She sighed at him as though he had disappointed her, and took her hands off his shoulders. Immediately, she once more became Violet Holmes, strong and independent entity. Mummy was gone, perhaps never to appear again.

It would certainly be less painful for all if that part of his mother never presented itself again. It might absolutely shatter him.

"Go dress," she told him, "and come to my rooms for a once over."

Sherlock nodded stiffly and turned to head down the hall. He'd only gotten as far as the cabin door directly next to his mother's when she called his name. Irritably, he spun on his heel and asked, "Yes, Mummy?" in a way he hoped was not mutinous.

"I trust you've learned your lesson," she said, talking quietly and more to the door than him. It was the mark of someone saying something they did not want anyone overhearing. "And you know toeing the boundary line is not beneficial to anyone." She paused and stared at him. Through him. Then uttered what felt like a death sentence. "You have to start behaving to James what you practically are already: A spouse." There was a rest, like a heroine's dramatic beat in an opera, but this was not an opera and Sherlock knew the sensation of a quarter rest only existed his head. "If James asks you to come to him tonight, you will go to him. Understood?"

Grinding his teeth together, Sherlock growled, "Yes, Mummy," and turned away, his stomach twisting itself into knots.

* * *

><p>Irene Alder was a strange woman of strange tastes. When John entered her rooms, he was immediately met with the sitting room, which had luggage strewn about in a way that he was sure was not acceptable in any high-class home—especially considering it wasn't even acceptable in the third class cabins. Every morning they were expected to make their beds and pick up any debris from the night before.<p>

Then again, perhaps untidiness was yet another of those luxuries only the rich could afford.

He was told to use her en-suite shower, and to wait in her bedroom once he was done. John felt enormously uncomfortable in the upper-class quarters, expecting at any moment to be discovered and banished. Irene, however, was smart and had the good sense to wait until everyone had gone into their rooms to lead him from the deck outside, through the doors, and down the stairs to her cabin on B deck. Now in her rooms, he felt relatively safe.

From persecution by steward, anyway. Not so much from harassment from Irene Adler herself.

Before he was even done showering, Irene was back toting a garment bag. He squawked in protest, declaring himself indecent and turning his back to her, but Irene just smirked and said, "Calm yourself, Doctor. Christ, you British men are such prudes. Your prudishness is only matched by the women of your nation."

John stared at her dumbly, for until a moment ago he assumed she _was _British. Then he shook himself and said, "Never mind my prudishness, you shouldn't be barging in on me!"

"Oh, be quiet," Irene sighed, rolling her eyes, "I've brought you clothes. Prudes such as you like clothes, correct?"

Now she was just being condescending. John said, "Thank you, Mrs. Adler, but please leave me alone to put them on."

Irene smirked and walked out of the room, presumably to put some dinner clothes of her own on. John sighed and stepped out of the shower, grabbing a towel left on the nearby vanity stool. He ran it through his hair, over his body to rid himself of excess water, then stepped up to the garment bag laying on the bed in the bedroom belonging to the en-suite bathroom. It was a fine bag, made of leather that was butter-soft to the touch. Somehow, the bag more than anything—the fine woods, the delicate linens, the _en-suite bathroom_—made him realize how thoroughly out of his depths he was.

He didn't want to think about it too hard. If he did, he would begin second-guessing himself, and he was too far in to turn back now. The term, "Point of no return," came to mind.

Opening the bag, he came to face a white tie tuxedo. It was the closest he had ever actually been to such a suit. It was simple at least so far as he could tell, but it was intimidating in its very existence and presence.

He vaguely registered the fact that he did not know how to put it on.

The pants (Irene had left _pants _for him, black silk things, and it mortified him to no end) and trousers were simple enough, and of course only took half an ounce of common sense to put on, despite the foreign materials and unique shape in the case of the trousers. The shirt was a bit harder to tackle—again mostly because of shape. There was also an excess of fabric in front, for some reason. The texture was strange.

He was trying to button the cuffs of the shirt when Irene reentered. She wore a midnight blue evening gown, accented on the bodice with gold embroidery, and along the sleeves in gold stitching. It was some heavy fabric that shone in the light and hung down, heavy with its own weight, and moved about her like she was wading in dark water. The kind of thick, deep water that _Titanic_ was wading through; an almost solid presence her bow was cutting through.

Upon seeing John, she rolled her eyes and said, "Men! You're absolutely hopeless!" before advancing and taking John's wrist into her own hands.

John watched her efficiently do his buttons, and allowed her to maneuver him into the waistcoat which, without her, probably would have mystified him to the point of surrender. She then tied his white bowtie, and he asked her, "How do men of your class _do_ this every night?" It was just a struggle for him to pull his braces up over his shoulders to clip them to the front of his trousers' waistband. He had no idea how first class men put on so many bells as whistles night after night.

"They don't," Irene said, picking up the tuxedo jacket. "They have wives and valets. Sometimes, both." Winding around behind John, she said, "Arms out," and slid the jacket up his arms, settled it on his shoulders, and smoothed it down. Waited until John had shaken the arms into a comfortable fit before coming back around and smirking. "I thought my husband's clothes might fit you well. You have your statures in common, if not your builds. It may be a little loose in the shoulders, but better too much room than too little."

"This is your husband's?" muttered John, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable under the weight of the fine fabric.

"Well," Irene muttered, tilting her head to the side. "When I say that, I mean…they're my husband's size. Rather convenient, in fact, for I've discovered that his trousers are just roomy enough for my hips." She smirked, as though she had just divulged some nasty little secret, and added, "But no, my husband has never worn that tuxedo, if that's what you're asking. Never even laid eyes on it, for that matter."

John didn't know what made him ask it, because he certainly made no conscious decision to do so, but he found himself inquiring, "And have you? Worn it, that is?"

Irene's smirk was all he needed for an answer. She said, "It's amazing how much an average woman can look like a short man when she puts on a fancy tux and has a beautiful showgirl from New York on her arm. And being a man gets you a lot of places that being a woman won't." Then she winked, straightened his bowtie, and said, "Anyway, you're going to need to be careful. You look like one of them, and they'll probably _think _you're one of them…but if they realize you're not, they'll eat you alive."

Sighing, John said, "That was something I was afraid you would say."

"Relax." Irene patted his chest and gave him a flash of teeth and another wink. "You'll have Sherlock Holmes on your arm."

"He has a fiancé."

"That man," muttered Irene, stepping away and crossing her arms. She tilted her head to the side, concentrating on his appearance, "Can't even sit next to his _fiancé_ without flinching constantly, and they never walk in together. He's technically not _supposed _to walk in with you either, but I can assure you that it won't stop him from doing it, and if you offer, and his fiancé is not around…it would only be polite for him to accept. Plus, it would piss off his mother, and I think he enjoys pissing off his own mother as much as I do mine."

Apparently having made a decision regarding his appearance, she walked away into the bathroom, a woman on a mission. From beyond the double doors her voice floated to him, "You'll soon realize, Doctor Watson, that our little corner of society has so many contradicting rules that it's better to just ignore them. If you tried to follow all of them, you'd be twisting yourself over backwards. You're a man—just look like you know what you're doing, look like you're supposed to be doing it, and no one will question you. It's only the women that have to keep every toe in line and have mouths butter wouldn't melt in."

"You're saying butter doesn't melt in your mouth?" John said, unable to keep a disbelieving chuckle out of his voice as she came back in, a small tub of some kind of cosmetic held in her hands.

Irene laughed as well. "It doesn't melt, dear; it _burns_." She took him by the arm and sat him down on the bed, then unscrewed the lid from the tub and said, "Hold."

Once John had it in his hand—laying flat on his palm, so Irene could dip into it with her fingers as needed—she started smoothing some kind of grease through his hair. It smelled vaguely nutty, though he couldn't tell if that was some kind of artificial perfume or the natural scent of the ingredients.

"What are you putting in my hair?" he demanded, reaching a hand up to feel the hair at the crown of his head. Irene slapped his hand away.

"No touching!" she admonished, and ran a previously unseen comb through his hair. He winced; whatever she'd put in on his head, it was sticky. "It's just a little pomade."

"Isn't that stuff hard to get out?"

"Not with the lye soap they have you use down in steerage," she snorted, and although John knew she meant no offense—if she meant any, it was against the White Star Line for providing mediocre toiletries—he could help but shrink slightly under the scrutiny. Irene rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Get over yourself. You know, I was a working girl once, not so long ago. I'm not like these people. I know what it's like. I'm not poking fun, Doctor Waston."

For once, she seemed earnest rather than devious. John had no choice but to believe her. Feeling vaguely admonished, he was quiet for several minutes, letting Irene comb his hair back and apply a liberal amount of the pomade. The hands in his hair and the smell of women's perfume reminded him of all the mornings he had spent sitting on the edge of his parents' bed as his mother combed his hair for school or church, or any number of social events.

Memories of his childhood were hard to draw up sometimes. Something it felt like that was an entirely different life.

He said, "I wasn't always…um…"

"Poor?" Irene suggested. "A vagabond?"

John gave a nervous chuckle and said, "Both. My family wasn't incredibly wealthy…but when my father died, my mum got hold of enough money to send me to medical school. I trained to be a surgeon, but…Well, I'd always wanted to travel, you know? Leave England for fantastic new lands." Irene snorted, and he said, "I know, I know; it was a juvenile dream, but I was young and I wanted it more than anything. So I joined the army, and they sent me to India, and life was great for a few months. Somehow I ended up a Captain and I was helping people and it _wasn't England_.

"Then I got shot—shoulder. They got the bullet out, but the wound became infected. I had a raging fever, and I spent six weeks in delirium. They said I must have had some kind of guardian angel, because not many people recover from an infection like that. I think that's part of the reason they sent me back to England so quickly after I recovered; I was a liability. I realized shortly afterwards that I had some kind of nerve damage. My hands shake…all the time." He demonstrated, holding out his hand with his fingers splayed. He sighed, "This is my dominant hand."

"Surgeons can't have nerve damage," Irene muttered, sitting down beside him on the bed.

"Surgeons can't have nerve damage," he confirmed. "So the army dropped me back in England as soon as I could travel. I didn't want to go back to my mum…she's got my sister, my baby sister Harriet—she's only fifteen. My mum doesn't need to worry about her _and_ her fully grown son.

"Then I suppose I realized that there's a silver lining to every rain cloud. I'd always wanted to travel, and suddenly I had no ties to anything. Not my family, not the army. So I took off."

For a moment, they stared at each other. Irene folded her hands in her lap and stared ahead of her, pensive. Slowly muttered, "When I was laughing before…I wasn't laughing at you. I was laughing because I know what…" She sighed and swallowed, and very carefully pronounced, "What that is like. To want desperately to leave, and not have the means."

Then she stood up, stepped over to the mirror, and turned it towards him. He started, because he barely recognized himself. His hair was swept back away from his face, vaguely reminiscent of his military days. But the military hairdo had distinctly lacked the waxed luster of his now pomade-drenched hair, and the very sight of himself in such an expensive suit was incredibly startling. He stood up and drew closer to the mirror. Pulled the jacket closer to himself, turned to the side and tried to examine himself from every possible angle.

He looked as little like John Watson as it was possible for a man to look like himself.

"You sure do shine up, Doctor," Irene said, smoothing the lines of the jacket. "They won't even recognize you down there."

"I don't even recognize myself," John remarked.

"Ready to knock them dead?" Irene inquired, drifting over to the bedside table to grab her clutch bag.

John turned around, gave a short nod, and followed Irene out the door.

* * *

><p>The moment Sherlock stepped through the double doors of the A deck entrance to the Grand Staircase, he was looking for John. He skirted around the banister at the top, staring down into the milling crowd below on B deck. It was some kind of unstated law that diners milled on B deck for the half hour or so before dinner, and then proceeded to the D deck dining room as one enormous throng as the time drew closer to six o'clock.<p>

He could see his mother, walking with James and looking incredibly displeased. It was no mystery why; Sherlock had failed to present himself for his obligatory once-over. Several reasons contributed to this decision, not the least of which was his disinclination to be forced to walk with his mother, and run the risk of being led straight past John. He wanted to have time to scope the crowd; spot John and makes his approach without the Hawk eye of his mother watching his every move.

Also contributing was his attire. His new wardrobe consisted of several evening suits—not tuxedos, as those are attire for masculine men, not feminized men. So-called 'evening suits' were unique to themselves, more like women's gowns; they did not come in the cookie-cutter design of men's tuxes. This particular suit had sleeves that billowed somewhat from the elbow, and a jacket that fastened in front. It had the typical lace cuffs and collarbone-exposing neckline of feminized men's eveningwear.

It was also a shade of deep scarlet that his mother had deemed inappropriate and provocative. It was the first (And, if he had his way, only) piece of his new wardrobe that he had bought for himself, simply because it had vexed his mother so when he tried it on at the tailor's.

He couldn't say what had possessed him to wear it tonight. Again, possibly because it would upset his mother. But, deep in his subconscious, he knew it had something to do with John. He just didn't know _what_.

The sight of blonde hair amongst the more common brunette caught his attention, and his gaze zeroed in on the head milling about in the crowd. It was John, although Sherlock would not have been able to recognize him had he not spent the better part of the day staring at his face to the point where he had it memorized. There was no denying that a well-made suit made John Watson look like an entirely different man, and Sherlock was not sure he liked the sight of John blending in with the pretentious bigots of his own class.

Glancing down to make sure his mother was not monitoring the stairs for his entrance, Sherlock stepped to the top of the staircase and began his descent. John was not looking at him; rather, he was staring at an area of carpet vaguely adjacent to the bottom stair, and seemed to be talking to himself. His hands were folded behind his back and his legs were spread in a wide-legged stance. It wasn't hard for Sherlock to recognize a military stance when he saw one.

John was behaving as if he was preparing to march to war. It wasn't, Sherlock realized, a terribly inappropriate metaphor.

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock cleared his throat. John spun around and Sherlock smiled, and for a moment time seemed to be suspended; for John, anyway. He stared at Sherlock with a face that he could not decipher; a wide-eyed look that seemed to make his face impossibly more expressive, and yet unreadable. Sherlock didn't think he had ever seen that look on anyone else's face, and it was deeply frustrating. For some reason, he found himself wanting to know every thought that John's mind even gave so much as a passing nod to.

The feeling was incredibly disconcerting.

Finally, John seemed to come back to his senses. He stood up straighter, cleared his throat, and licked his lips nervously. His arms went straight at his sides, and he nodded. "Evening."

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," Sherlock replied, low and amused. He smiled and held out his hand—sheathed in a white glove, _detestable_—and waited for John to take it. He stared blankly at it for a moment, until Sherlock said, "This is the moment when you take my hand and say, "May I accompany you to dinner, Mister Holmes?"

John shook himself, nodded, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. Sherlock stepped down the last two steps of the staircase and waited expectantly. It took a second or two for John to gather himself, but he finally said, "May I…accompany you to dinner?"

Sherlock couldn't help a snort. "You may."

John chuckled nervously in return, and glanced around. Said, "I can't help but feel like I don't belong here."

"You don't," Sherlock replied, "but act like you do, and they'll think you do as well."

Another nervous chuckle left John's mouth, although this one seemed to have genuine humor behind it rather than nervous energy. "That's the same thing Irene said."

Gesturing towards John's suit, Sherlock said, "At least I know where you got your outfit from. Does Miss Adler often travel with her husband's suits?"

"Well, apparently Miss Adler bought this one for herself," John chuckled, also glancing down at it, and they broke into giggles. They received a few stares from their more sober fellow diners, and John hushed him with the words, "Shhh! We're in first class. You can't _giggle _in first class." Which only propelled them into more quickly-stiffed laughter.

"Oh, these people need variety in their lives," Sherlock sighed, feeling the laughter still rolling around in his throat like the aftertaste of fine wine. It left a warm feeling in his stomach, gave him a contented lightheadedness. He looked at John and actually felt compelled to smile. He looped his arm through John's and said, "I suppose this will be more me accompanying you, considering you don't know where the dining room is."

"Mm," John agreed, patting his arm, and Sherlock dreaded the moment when he would have to let go.

Mummy and James were milling not far off, and Sherlock knew he would have to face the music sooner or later. Sighing, he started towards them, only to stop when he felt a hand against his shoulder that did not belong to John. Glancing to the side, he laid eyes on his brother. For some reason, it was relieving to know that Mycroft would be at his side when facing the challenge of Mummy and—possibly more importantly—James.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted, inclining his head. "I have to say I didn't think you would…tidy up as well as you have. You look every bit the gentleman's part." Mycroft had a way of saying everything in a blatantly superior way, as though bestowing the word of God onto a mortal. This time, however, he seemed to in some way _mean_ his words. Sherlock realized that his brother was genuinely surprised, and it was—for lack of a better word—surprising.

John smiled, tight-lipped and forced, and said, "Thanks. I suppose even I realized that 'third class dress' isn't proper for…this kind of function." He glanced around, at the cookie-cutter suits and the pretentious posturing, and Sherlock knew he did not like what he saw. John's discomfort was more than skin-deep; it was a discomfort felt deep in the recesses of his mind. It was the feeling of pretending to be something that you knew, in your deepest core, you were not.

If anyone was to realize what Sherlock was going through, in that moment it was John. It made him want to stand closer to John, tighten his grip, squeeze his hand around John's wrist.

Mycroft stared at him. It was a penetrating stare that he knew well; the stare their mother had taught them. Sherlock knew Mycroft could practically hear these thoughts, and there was something disapproving in his stare, and yet…

And yet Mycroft kept his face passive and neglected to comment. Simply turned around and walked over to his mother, rested his hand on her back and turned her to face Sherlock, saying, "Mummy, have you met Doctor Watson?"

It was obvious that Mummy did not quite understand what she was looking at. That she was not quite certain whether the Doctor Watson she had met on the promenade deck not an hour before was the same Doctor Watson that stood before her now. She still wasn't sure when she held out her hand for John to shake. Only when he gave the same nervous handshake he had given her earlier did she realize that it was the same Watson; the same disheveled third-class vagabond that she had encountered earlier now stood before her in a white-tie tuxedo and slicked-back hair, looking every bit the young millionaire he was trying to impersonate.

James was another story entirely. Immediately upon sighting John, his eyes narrowed and he said, "Doctor Watson. What a surprise." Then, turning his eyes on Sherlock, he said, "I had no idea that my fiancé's gratitude extended so far as to invite you to a function that you aren't supposed to be at."

"It was me, actually," Mycroft said, to Sherlock's utter shock—and to their mother's. "I thought Doctor Watson's tale of heroicness would be stimulating conversation for dinner."

"Stimulating," Mummy echoed, retaining her wide-eyed look surprise, and Sherlock fought the impulse to chuckle.

A moment of awkward silence passed, and James' eyes bored into Sherlock's ferociously. It was obvious that Sherlock's actions would not go unpunished, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to care so much—not with John next to him, standing between he and James.

"Shall we proceed to the dining room?" Mycroft inquired, taking their mother's arm from James. For a moment, Sherlock felt a distant sort of panic rise in him—without his mother or brother's arms available, he would have no choice but to walk with James. It abated, however, when James gave a small snort and started to stroll ahead.

John said, "Sour grapes," and Sherlock had to stifle his explosive bark of laughter in his wrist.

They headed down the three flights of the Grand Staircase to the main dining room, merging into the throng. There were even more people at the very base of the Grand Staircase than there had been at the bottom of the first flight, and John licked his lips—a nervous habit, Sherlock was quickly realizing—and said, "So, is there anyone I should definitely be aware of?"

"Mm. Well, in my opinion, not really…their egos are too large to begin with. However, in order to fit in, you'll have to know who some of them are. For instance," he gestured (Not pointed; pointing was rude, his mother's voice floated to him from the recesses of his mind) towards a tall, mustached man talking to several other men and said, "That's Bruce Ismay, the chairman of the White Star line. He's got an over-inflated opinion of himself and a serious preoccupation with size. Freud theorizes that a man preoccupied with size is compensating for…petiteness in other areas."

"Oh?" chuckled John.

Sherlock nodded, a smirk playing on his lips, and gestured towards another man; this one shorter and rounder about the face. "And that's Thomas Andrews, the man who essentially built this ship. He's kind, I think, if a bit naïve. He has a young daughter and a wife, and he's terribly concerned with the integrity of the ship, almost as one might be with the wellbeing of their child. He doesn't approve of Mister Ismay's antics—Mister Ismay, by the way, is pushing for the ship to go faster and arrive in New York earlier than it should. Mister Andrews thinks it's dangerous, especially this time of year."

Giving a sideways glance, John said, "Are you some sort of eavesdropper?"

"Lord, no. Eavesdropping is tedious. I just watch and observe."

"I thought you said you didn't like people-watching?"

Surprised that John had remembered his offhanded statement from that morning, Sherlock swung his head around to stare down at John and said, "Well…when I said that it may have been, how you'd put it, 'sour grapes." He paused to let John chuckle and continued, "I don't get to do it—I actually get in quite a bit of trouble if I do—so I put on the appearance of disliking it. In reality, it's what I thrive of off."

"I can tell."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock said, "What do you mean?"

"Well, it's just…when you have a healthy…data pool, and someone to convey your, ah…observations…"

"Deductions."

"Deductions to, you seem to light up."

"Light up?" Sherlock furrowed his brows.

"It's…an expression." John huffed out a laugh and remarked, "Has anyone ever happened to mention how spacey you are sometimes?"

Waving his hand in dismissal, Sherlock said, "Not in so many words, but if the word 'spacey' means what I'm assuming it to mean, then yes. Some people think it's a language barrier, assuming my first language to be French—which it is, but that's not the reason. I just don't have time to learn slang. I know ten languages—four fluent, six conversational. Do you have any idea how long it would take me to learn the colloquialisms for every language? Plus there's the detriment that I simply _do not care_." Tilting his head to the side, Sherlock said, "In fact, Doctor Watson, I'm quite sure you referred to me as 'spacey' on deck this morning."

A small smile played across John's face and he said, "Yeah. But I suppose it's not a bad thing. You don't take the world too seriously."

"No, Doctor; I don't take _people_ too seriously. There's a difference." He sighed and said, "Unfortunately, these people all seem to have the same stories. An affair here, monetary problems there. Always the same monotonous crowd of people. It's hardly stimulating, and after a while, I do come to detest it…simply because it becomes boring, and I hate to be bored."

With that to chew on, John dropped silent and so did Sherlock, only interjecting a comment every once in a while, nudging John and making a short comment. ("The woman over there is the Marquésa of Morella; she's good friends with my mother, at the moment anyway. Her husband is suffering from some disease of the liver. Their daughter is bonking my brother."

"Did you say bonking just now?"

"Yes.")

It took them a few minutes to navigate between the bodies, as much because their path was blocked as it was that Sherlock wanted to put as much distance between himself and his mother as possible. He could still see her head—she was one of the tallest women in the room—and every once in a while she would turn back, give him an acidic stare, and turn back around to whatever conversation she was having. If it was up to him, he would not get any closer than twelve feet until several hours from now. Unfortunately, dinner was to begin in just under ten minutes, at six o'clock sharp.

"We should find our seats," Sherlock muttered, like a man steeling himself for battle.

As though she had been summoned—Sherlock would not be surprised if she answered to the scent of desperation as surely as she did her own name—Irene appeared on John's other side and said, "Ah, Doctor. Just the man I was looking for. I've pulled a few strings and had a place card for you put next to me."

"Careful," Sherlock muttered, staring over John's head at Irene, "Irene's idea of dinner conversation can make lesser men lose their appetite."

"Mmm, don't listen to him; his habit of transferring his food onto others' plates has nothing to do with my repartee." Irene looped her arm through John's and patted his hand, giving him a smirk.

John glanced between them, bewildered, and said, "Do you two know each other?"

"Not at all," Irene said.

Sherlock replied, "I met her our first night onboard."

"Really? Because you're…"

"I'd advise you not to finish that sentence, Doctor." Sherlock flashed his teeth and bulled onward, practically dragging John behind him. Irene let go, tripping over her dress at Sherlock's speed, and he immediately slowed down, satisfied.

By that point there was really no point in continuing, because they had reached the table. Sherlock headed around and begrudgingly let James pull out his chair for him. Before he scooted all the way in, he felt James' lips next to his ear. He said, "I hope you realize that you've just overstepped your limits. You _will_ come to me tonight, Sherlock." Then he was gone, leaving Sherlock in a state of severe unease. Determined to be angry rather than scared, Sherlock scowled deeply and bowed his head, scrunching his hands into the napkin over his knees.

When he looked up, John's blue eyes met his, deep with concern. Sherlock quickly averted his gaze and did not bring it back until the first course of their meal arrived—caviar.

* * *

><p><em>I think it must have been obvious to them that John was not one of them. He was too unpretentious. He wore his heart on his sleeve and had earnest eyes. He spoke no falsehoods and wasn't shy about letting his opinions be known. Yet, no one mentioned it. No one made any motion to suggest that John couldn't dine with us, although they would have had every right to. I think even the richest people are humbled by reminders of what it's like to be poor, and to live on the merit of your character.<em>

_Even my mother, I think, was somewhat seduced by the charm of Doctor Watson. She spent much of dinner in stupor, unsure what to say or do. She disapproved wholeheartedly, of course, of my association with him on principal. However, I don't think she could quite bring herself to disagree with John's overall integrity of character._

_As I said before, however, James Moriarty was not a man. He was a spider, and spiders cannot be charmed._

* * *

><p>"Tell me, Watson, because I'm burningly curious to know," James began, and Sherlock knew nothing good could come of it. He turned his gaze to his meal, which again he had barely touched, and contemplated slicing off another piece of meat and sneaking it over to Greg Lestrade's plate. John had been watching him all evening, apparently to take his cues, so there had been very few opportunities to rid his plate of any amount of food. He had actually taken more food into his mouth than he had passed it onto Lestrade. It was the first time that had happened since boarding the ship.<p>

He wondered if that was purposeful on John's part. He also wondered if he should take the unsavory distraction of whatever condescending drivel that was about to fall from James' lips to transfer his food unobserved.

James continued, "How does one whose title is _doctor _find himself without the means of purchasing even a second-class ticket?"

The chatter of the table quieted, possibly as much for James' phrasing as it did for others' curiosity. Up until now, James had put forth his act of _understanding yet put-upon fiancé_ remarkably well. His mask was slipping, and Sherlock was satisfied to see that all it took was the sight of his fiancé—his Queen in his chess set, for Sherlock had definitely decided he was a Queen—on the arm of another man.

John took the question with grace. He cleared his throat and sat back in his chair, calm as you like. The only thing that belied his unease was the continual tightening and loosening of the fingers on his left hand.

"Well, I was a surgeon, you see, and I decided to enlist in the army as a member of RAMC. They sent me to India and, unfortunately, I was wounded. I have nerve damage from the wound in my dominant arm, and I can't practice with the tremor it causes. And, of course, it's hard for a surgeon who can't practice to hold down salary or housing."

"Hmmm. In that case, how did you manage to get even a third class ticket?" James raised his eyebrows, trying to give the impression that it was simply an innocent question. Sherlock was not quite sure whether or not it worked on the others at their table, but it certainly did not work on himself.

"A lucky hand in poker," John replied, and this was part of the story that Sherlock had not heard before. He sat up, paying more attention. "My mate Stamford and I happened to drop into a pub down along the docks the day _Titanic _set off. We involved ourselves in a game of poker with a couple of Swedes, and somehow it became an all-or-nothing game. The Swedes bet their tickets, and Stamford and I won."

"Next to a window, was it?" Sherlock asked before he could help himself. He recalled that day, recalled thinking of that pub in his fantasy of escape; fleeing into it after escaping the car that brought his family to Southampton. Remembered clear as day the men sitting in the window, intent on their game of poker, not at all aware of the turmoil that raged outside the door of the pub. To know that John was one of those men—to know that something as simple as a hand of poker could have decided whether or not the man who had saved his life made it onto the ship at _all_, that John Watson could have been just a nameless face in the window of a pub…

It was sobering.

John said, "It was," and stared quietly as Sherlock made his realization.

"So how did you run into young Mister Holmes?" Lestrade inquired from Sherlock's other side, and Sherlock resisted the urge to make an abortive gesture at John. It was the last question Sherlock wanted answered, asked by the person he least wanted to know, but if John didn't answer now, it would be an elephant in the room for the rest of dinner. Best get it over with quickly.

It would seem John had no qualms about answering it. He even chuckled as he said, "Well, that's a bit of an interesting story. See, I happened to be standing close when I heard Mister Holmes screaming. Somehow, he had gotten himself hanging off the back of the ship, I'm not sure how. I managed to pull him back over and onto the deck. Of course, it wasn't funny at the time, but in hindsight it's just a bit humorous."

The table found it appropriate to all chuckle in Sherlock's direction, which in turn prompted Sherlock to glare at his plate somewhat like a pouting child. He could feel Lestrade's gaze on him, and knew that if he looked up, he would find every reason to regret what he had done last night. So he kept his eyes turned down and took a bite of his dinner, for lack of anything better to do.

The exquisite meat felt and tasted like cotton on his tongue.

Dinner seemed to drag on forever, and by the time the men started making noises about going to the smoking room, Sherlock was ready to wave his white napkin as a flag of surrender. He watched James rise from his chair and, like the previous evening, he asked, "Do you want me to walk you back to your room, Sherlock?"

Again like the previous evening, Sherlock shook his head. "No. I'll stay here." Then, as an afterthought, added, "_With the women_."

Sighing, James rolled his eyes and headed off. Not before, however, muttering, "Don't forget what I told you."

When James was gone, John stood up and came around the table. Sherlock watched him, and when he drew close asked, "Leaving so soon, Doctor Watson?"

"I'm afraid I've outstayed my welcome," John said. He shook Sherlock's hand added, "Unfortunately, I'm not the one allowed in all parts of the ship. Besides, between you and me, I've seen better parties in Third class. Lots of interesting people, there." With raised eyebrows, and glanced towards the Grand Staircase, which was just barely visible on the other side of the dining room, and said, "I'll just have another look at that clock at the top of the stairs, and then I'll be gone."

With one last smile, he drifted away in the direction of the Grand Staircase. Sherlock stared after him for a long moment, brows furrowed. Wondering why in the world John had to air his intentions in such a way. He could feel his mother's gaze on him, and he knew that she wanted to speak with him, but for the moment he was going to put it off for as long as possible.

For the moment, there was the enigma of John Watson to decode.

Greg Lestrade shifted next to him and, after several minutes and more anxious fidgeting, Lestrade said, "You know, he's not going to wait for you all night."

Turning his head to the side, Sherlock demanded, "What."

"Doctor Watson. He's not going to wait for you all night. If you're going to join him, you should do it now."

Supremely annoyed, Sherlock snapped, "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mister Lestrade. Doctor Watson just said he was going back to his cabin in Third Class."

At this point, Lestrade rolled his eyes with a look of utter exasperation on his face and said, "Is the concept of a hint completely lost on you? He basically told you to meet him at the clock at the top of the staircase."

"Why?"

Lestrade smirked. "To show you a good time I suppose."

Raising his eyebrows, Sherlock said, "Oh."

Lestrade said, "Go! Christ, go before he thinks you're not going to meet him."

Sherlock couldn't get out of his chair fast enough.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes: <strong>Ahhhhh that took a while, didn't it? Well, I'm sorry to say that it took a little while for me to get the chapter done—I've been having lots of personal issues lately, some happy and some not so happy, that have kept me away from the internet and writing in general. However, it looks as though my schedule has calmed down somewhat, so the gap between this chapter and the next won't be so very long.

Also, my beta, Unconstant, has been having some issues of her own. Sadly, she wasn't able to beta this chapter. However, I did enlist the help of school friend, Aiko Isari, to beta this chapter, and probably the next chapter as well. She's a wonderful human being to have stepped in, especially considering that she's not in the fandom.

Anyway, thank you for reading, once again, and stay tuned for next chapter. If you want to make sure you'll see the update, however, I recommending actually following the story. There may or may not be a rating change between this chapter and the next, and if it doesn't happen then, it will definitely happen between the eighth and ninth chapters.


	8. Chapter Seven: Learning How to Dance

**Chapter Seven: Learning How to Dance**

* * *

><p>John was a bundle of nerves as he ascended to the top of the Grand Staircase, to the landing on A deck where the clock stood. He had no idea—no idea whatsoever—what had possessed him to say that to Sherlock; what insolent little part of his brain had thought it would be a good idea. It had the potential to get him into a world of pain. He didn't know Sherlock that well, he told himself. The only proof he had that Sherlock would be even vaguely interested in the third class party was his statement from earlier.<p>

Which, John realized, he couldn't even remember. Something about the people of his class being so terribly monotonous and boring. Something about sour grapes and people-watching.

Ten minutes, John told himself, and then he would leave.

In the end, he didn't even have to wait five. Sherlock came bounding up; taking the steps two at a time in the absence of any traffic on the stairs—dinner was still not quite over yet. He came to stand beside John, raised an eyebrow, and said, "You mentioned something about third class parties."

"I did."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a smirk. "Care to show me?"

John's response was to grin and nod, jerking his head towards the doors leading from the landing to the promenade deck. Said, "Sure. Come on. I think they hold them in the dining room."

An infectious grin spread across Sherlock's face. It was out of place on him, John had to say—his face was not one made for a large amount of expression—but it was not unattractive. More goofy than anything. John felt his heart catch on a beat, a momentary break from its activity of hammering a dent into the well-starched shirt he wore. He shook his head to clear it. Thoughts like that were dangerous. Exceedingly, stupidly dangerous, and he'd been having them all through dinner.

The trek downstairs was taken in silence, but a comfortable one. John found himself staring out of the corner of his eye, taking the opportunity to take Sherlock in to the full extent, while he was relaxed and relatively content. All through dinner, he had been rigid and still, barely moving to even put food in his mouth. In fact, John could not recall four times when he had actually seen Sherlock _chew_. It wasn't in his place to mention anything, but as a doctor, it concerned him.

They could hear the party before they were even twenty meters away. It was a miracle that the commotion wasn't echoing farther down, because when John opened the door to the dining room, a virtual _wave_ of noise hit him right in the chest. He blinked hard and took a step back, but Sherlock looked like Christmas had come early. Before John could say anything, he was weaving his way into the crowd.

It wouldn't have been hard to keep track of him; not with the scarlet suit (The fitted, well-tailored, frankly _provocative_ scarlet suit) and his curly hair bobbing above three-fourths of the other heads in the crowd. But it didn't take a genius (Like Sherlock; for even if he hadn't mentioned it, it was easily assumed) to realize that Sherlock did not need a shadow in the form of John Watson to follow him around wherever he went, no matter how much John wanted to be an audience to his brilliance.

A younger girl, Sarah, bounded over to him from an unseen area of the dining room. Over the noise of music, chatter, laughter, and pounding feet, she shouted, "Hello, Doctor Watson!"

He bent down and shouted back, "Hello, Sarah!" He met Sarah and her mother yesterday whilst walking around on deck with Mike. Sarah was a precocious fifteen-year-old that reminded him too much of Harriet. Although he had never been particularly close with his sister—the age gap and the amount of time he had been away from home since her birth were major contributing factors to that—it made him ache for home.

It also reminded him that he had not warned his mother or sister before taking off for America—there had been literally no time—and it made him feel intensely guilty.

Sarah was sweet, however, so he was not going to send her away simply because she served as a reminder of his transgressions.

"Who was that man you were with a moment ago?" she inquired, raising an eyebrow and holding her arms akimbo. She was trying to look mature, most likely modeling herself after her mother, but the image of stern-faced fifteen-year-old only served to make John giggle. He was glad she couldn't possibly hear the small noise that came out of his mouth over the din of the party. She added, "He was dressed quite strangely."

John replied, "That was Mister Holmes. He's a friend of mine."

Sarah's eyes narrowed. "Hm."

There was a pause in the music as a song ended, and the crowd cheered. Sarah whirled around, the ribbons in her hair whipping her face, as the band started up another song—this one even faster-paced, if that was possible. Quickly, Sarah turned back around and said, "Dance with me, Doctor Watson; please?"

Another thing about Sarah that unsettled him was her unbridled fascination with him. John couldn't quite tell if it was a crush, or hero-worship. Neither was particularly good, but he was hoping for the latter. A crush could be incredibly self-destructive for a girl her age, especially when it involved a man his age.

He shook his head. "I don't know how to dance, sweetheart; sorry. Perhaps one of the boys will dance with you."

Humming, Sarah cocked her head and glanced around, crossing her arms. She actually seemed to be considering his suggestion, although only half-heartedly. She only gave the room a perfunctory once-over before turning back around and saying, "All of the boys are too young or are already dancing with someone. Please, Doctor Watson?"

Weakly, John said, "You can call me John, you know."

"No, I like Doctor Watson. It makes you sound…respectable and wise." She sighed and smiled and said, "I want to be a doctor."

Although John knew that it was a dream which would most likely not come true for her, he smiled and nodded and said, "Well, it takes a lot of hard work."

"I know." Smirking, she added, "I'm fifteen, Doctor Watson. Not five. You don't have to be so condescending."

Feeling chastised, John scratched the back of his neck again, cleared his throat, and said, "You're right, I'm sorry…Ah…" Sighing, he glanced around for Sherlock and, not finding him—he must have sat down somewhere—slumped in submission and said, "I suppose I'll dance with you, Sarah." After all, how could he refuse such a sweet girl?

Sarah smiled as though she had been given the world. Stepping close, she grabbed both his hands and said, "Don't worry about not knowing the steps. You don't really have to. Just sort of hop from foot to foot and look like you know what you're doing, and no one will pay you any mind."

It was surprisingly similar to what Irene had said to him a few hours before.

Surprisingly, Sarah was very respectful of his personal space, which was hard whilst dancing. She stayed a good distance away from him, even while other couples pressed chest-to-chest and men gripped their partners around the waist, and women their partners around the neck. The dance Sarah lead him through was a strange jig that involved him spinning her in endless circles and complicated foot movements that she knew and he did not. She had fun, though, which was all that mattered, and somehow in the chaos of two or three songs, he relocated Sherlock.

He was sitting at a table with two or three men, although it was obvious he was not involving himself in the conversation. His eyes were taking in the scene with a hunger that was almost visible. Legs and arms crossed, eyes darting rapidly over the assembled masses, look of utmost concentration on his face. Where the smile from earlier had seemed out of place, this expression was incredibly fitting. This default look of information processing was just as beautiful on Sherlock's face as a smile on the face of any beautiful woman.

John wasn't sure what thinking that said about him.

The song ended, and John wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve. He could honestly say that he hadn't exerted himself quite as much since leave the army two years earlier. Looking down at Sarah, he said, "I have to sit down for a few minutes, okay sweetheart?"

Understandingly, Sarah nodded and stepped away. She straightened her dress and the ribbons in her hair and said, "Alright. Will you dance with me again later?"

"I'm just not sure," he said, patting her shoulder, and she accepting this answer without fuss. She turned to head away, presumably to find her mother, and John watched as the crowd swallowed her.

Sherlock turned his attention onto John as he sat down beside him, which was slightly disconcerting. The younger man was still in full 'deduction' mood, and the full brunt of the onslaught was almost too much for a mere mortal to handle.

"Sorry," John said quickly, glancing down in hopes that, when he looked back up, Sherlock would have dulled the point of his piercing stare. "Got held up. Sarah. Sweet girl, very smart, but persistent. Insisted I dance with her."

One of Sherlock's eyebrows crept up his forehead, and he said, "You realize why that is, don't you?"

John gestured at him and replied, "I'm sure you'll tell me."

"She's…how do you put it? She…_fancies_ you."

Rubbing his temples, John sighed, "I was afraid you would say that. Oh dear." He moved his hand down, covering his mouth for a moment, tracing his bottom lip. Clucked his tongue and gave a small shrug. "Well, what are you going to do, I suppose. I do wish these girls would realize how old is too old, though."

Sherlock looked confused. Leaned back in his chair and said, "Exactly how old is too old?"

John made a vague noise in the back of his throat, and an even vaguer motion with his shoulders and hands. "It's…well it's different for everyone, depending on your age and if you're a man or a woman and whatnot. But she's fifteen. She should still be playing with dolls, as far as I'm concerned. She's barely a young woman yet. Shouldn't be thinking about such things at such a young age."

"Women marry at her age all the time."

"I know. Doesn't make me any less uneasy about it. Makes me feel uncomfortable, like some kind of predatory old man." He rubbed his arms, as though chilled with the thought even though the room was very warm. "My baby sister is the same age as her, for Christ's sake."

"She's only two years younger than me," Sherlock pointed out.

Furrowing his brows, John said, "I thought you were nineteen. You told me you were nineteen, last night."

"No, I said I _might_ have been nineteen." Sherlock seemed to be drawing himself up and, at the same time, pulling himself in. He said, "I'm seventeen, Doctor, and my fiancé is almost thirty. You have to realize that in the current social climate, it's more than acceptable for young women to marry older men. Or, as I'm sure you've realized, young _feminized_ men to marry older men. I'm sure your little dance partner has been told over and over again by her mother that she has to secure an older husband with a respectable profession."

"_Sherlock!"_

"Don't tell me I'm wrong, Doctor, because I'm not and it would be particularly exhausting if you tried."

Gritting his teeth, John said, "Alright, first of all: While that may be true, you have no right to talk about her that way. She's a sweet girl, and her intentions are pure, I'm sure of it. Second of all, if you're going to stay here, you need to knock yourself off that high horse you're on. I brought you down here observe the mortals, but that also means that you have to _respect _the mortals. Anything else is just _rude_, Sherlock." As an afterthought, he added, "And _stop_ calling me Doctor Watson. It's John, okay? I hate it when people shove my title down my throat."

It wasn't certain which part of the reprimand made Sherlock frown—perhaps it was the entire thing—but he was quick to reply, "Most doctors take pleasure in shoving their title down others' throats."

"Yeah, well I think you'll find that I'm not 'most doctors.'"

Thus commenced a staring contest that John was not prepared for, but nevertheless withstood until someone knocked into the table and sent two pint glasses careening into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock unfolded himself and gasped, more from shock than anything, John thought. John made sure the incredibly pissed man who had sent the glasses flying was not injured, before picking him up off the floor and pushing him back into the crowd with a growl of, "Be more careful, for God's sake."

He turned back to Sherlock to find him standing, trying to remove as much beer as possible from his suit jacket. John asked, "You okay?"

"Fine." Sherlock looked up, hands dripping beer, and shook them vigorously. John couldn't help but laugh, because Sherlock looked only a bit like a housecat that had wandered in front of the garden hose. Sherlock tried to frown at him, tried to look prideful and disapproving of John's mirth, but finally his face convulsed into a crooked grin and a snort expelled itself involuntarily from his throat.

"Hey," John said. Took Sherlock's wrist into his hand and pulled him closer. "Dance with me."

He didn't know what in the world had gotten into him. Neither, it seemed, did Sherlock, who looked as though he was just as shocked at what had just come out of John's mouth as John was. A strange expression crossed his face—eyes wide, yet brow knitted—and he asked, "Are you sure that's wise?"

Shrugging, John glanced around and replied, "Probably not, all things considered, but no one will notice, and if they do I doubt they'll care. It's just dancing, after all, and down here it's much more…disorganized than it is with…your people." He shrugged again.

There was a split second in which Sherlock looked as though he would refuse; frowning deeply, mouth open. It passed, however, and Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed, "Oh, for God's sake…" but his words were at odds with his movements. He grabbed one of John's hands and stepped closer; obviously not as adverse as his utterances would suggest.

John merely grinned and pulled Sherlock closer, then faltered and said, "Wait…who should lead?" He may not know how to dance, but he knew someone always led, and that said 'leader' was almost always the man. Between the two of them, of course, there was no designated leader.

"Does it necessarily matter in this…style of dance?" Sherlock mused, staring about at the other couples. Nobody was dancing the same dance, per say, and John was sure it lacked the formality of the waltzes and jigs that took place at upper class functions.

"Well, I mean…" John fumbled with his hands, one on Sherlock's chest and the other hovering vaguely over his lower back. "Where do I put my hands? Aren't there particular…places where you've got to put your hands, even in dancing like this?" It hadn't been a problem with Sarah, because Sarah was much shorter and seemed quite content to let him swing her back and forth by her hands, probably because she knew he didn't quite know how to dance.

Besides; he hadn't wanted to encourage Sarah in her so-called 'crush.'

Somehow, although he couldn't quite put his hands on it, Sherlock was different. Perhaps because Sherlock was taller than Sarah, whom at fifteen was short for her age and only reached John's shoulder (Which would put her somewhere at Sherlock's mid-chest; _Christ _the man was tall) and also perhaps because Sherlock was older. The difference was only two years, true, but a person did a lot of maturing between the ages of fifteen and seventeen—especially boys, and John should know.

He had a feeling, though, that it was neither of those things. Sherlock had an air about him; like a porcelain vase. Not that he was delicate, but that he was something you had to handle right, or risk upsetting him. He demanded respect, and being swung around by the arms was not respect.

Sherlock pulled him out of his thoughts by taking his other hand (Not without taking a great sigh, as if he were so put-upon) and settling it over his waist. "Generally, the feminized man follows. Although, as neither of us know this dance, I doubt much following or leading will be taking place. This, however, is the obligatory position."

"All right." John worried a pinch of Sherlock's jacket between his index finger and thumb, and stared ahead at Sherlock's clavicle. For some reason he felt nervous, although he had no reason to be. Sherlock's hand on his shoulder was a heavy, warm weight when he placed it there and stepped slightly closer, repositioning John's hand on his waist. Finally, John looked up at his face. He looked just as nervous as John felt. John said, "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Sherlock replied, and yelped as John took off. It was a fast-paced dance, John had found as he was dancing with Sarah earlier. You ran the risk of being bulled over in the crowd if you were not aggressive enough. Sherlock simply clung on for the ride, trying to match his feet to John's and failing.

"This isn't dancing!" Sherlock yelled, both to be heard over the noise and out of adrenalin, "This is combat!"

"Not a bad analogy," John yelled back. "But what do you know about combat?"

"I boxed in school. Could have made a career out of it if my mother hadn't pulled me out before my last year."

"You wanted to be a boxer?"

"I said I could have been; not that I wanted to."

John grinned and merely wrapped his arm tighter around Sherlock's waist, bringing them chest-to-chest. It was closer than he had ever intended to come to the other man, but Sherlock did not seem to mind very much—he raised an eyebrow in nonverbal amusement and John barked out a laugh. There was no point in being paranoid; in the fray of dancing bodies and whipping skirts, laughing and joy-squinted eyes, the two dancing men were all but hidden in plain sight. Unnoticed by the other Third Class passengers, whom were probably unconcerned besides. Nobody cared what anyone else was doing so long as the music played and the drink flowed.

They danced mostly silently, which was at odds with the chaos around them and, indeed, the movements of their own bodies. The dance seemed a time for laughter and chatter, but John could think of nothing to say, and was content not to say anything besides. Sherlock stared at his feet, and John stared at Sherlock.

There was no denying, for John, that Sherlock was a beautiful man. He didn't, however, delude himself into thinking that everyone would agree with him. Sherlock had a certain strangeness to him, not just in personality but in appearance. A certain extendedness of his face and high cheekbones and large, pale eyes that made him look in some ways—as John had thought when he first saw him—feline. Adolescent growth spurts had made him lanky, with disproportionately big hands and feet.

His was not conventional beauty, but it was beauty, and for some reason it stirred in John the shadow of feelings familiar to him only because they had reared their ugly heads during his friendship with Mary. The realization was alarming, and he looked down quickly, to stare at his own feet and shifted himself slightly away from Sherlock.

_He's engaged, you enormous twit._

Two songs later, Sherlock pulled away and panted, "I need to take a break." A small smile was stretched across his flushed face. The redness gave him a bit of color, a bit of ruddiness to his cheeks. John nodded vaguely and watched Sherlock navigate back towards the cluster of tables one the far end of the room. He bent his long arms behind his head to undo the ribbon keeping his hair tied back, gather it all together again (Some had fallen out) and tie it back up.

There was something incredibly wrong about watching a seventeen-year-old tie his hair back and thinking it seductive.

John navigated to the table, although not before locating two unclaimed drinks. He set one in front of Sherlock upon sitting down, and watched as the other man picked it up, appraised it for a moment, and took two long gulps. Then he set it down, grimaced, and shook his head. "Never have had much of a taste for ale."

"It has to be acquired," John replied, although he knew of men whom had picked up a bottle at the age of thirteen and required no adjustment period to the taste of it. He, himself, was proud to say that he hadn't indulged in drink until the army, and since then had indulged very rarely.

Mostly it was out of self-preservation. When alcohol was a major contributing factor to one's father's death, one learned to be cautious around the stuff.

It would have been something Sherlock picked up on right away, had he been looking at John whilst the other man sipped his ale. He was not, however; instead he was gazing out over John's head, staring at the dancers and the milling crowd. It was thinning as the time crept closer to midnight, but there were still many people about for the moment. In about half an hour, the band would start packing up and even the drunkest men would start swaying back to their cabins.

For now, the party continued.

At a table cattycorner to them, four or five men were gathered. They were taking turns arm wrestling, obviously trying to prove their masculinity in the most demonstrative way possible under the circumstances. John noticed them only vaguely and nodded at Bill Murray—the only one he recognized out of the group—but his attention was predominately on Sherlock. Through a smile, he inquired, "Alright?"

Sherlock nodded and made a barley-audible noise in response, although his attention was now mostly on the arm-wrestling men. Something had caught his eye—he had that look on his face. The one that made John think he could see all the way through a person. It wasn't befitting a young man—no one of that age should be so wise, and still have the capacity to be so very foolish with their knowledge—but it was heaps better than the unsavory expression he had been wearing through most of dinner. He wore his look of concentration with great beauty.

Nodding towards the adjacent table, Sherlock said, "You know them?" in a tone that made it difficult to decipher what he thought of John's acquaintances. He hardly shared the opinions of most people in his class, so it was almost impossible to predict his actions and thoughts. Although, John suspected, it was not an opinion of utmost respect.

John replied, "Yeah. Well—just the one. The redheaded bloke, that's Bill Murray. He's, er, more of an acquaintance than anything; I mean, I'd never heard of the guy before I got on the ship, but I know him."

Upon John's mentioning of the name 'Murray,' Sherlock's head cocked, and he looked back over towards the adjacent table. "Murray," he mused to himself, and towards John said, "The one with the unsavory opinions regarding feminized men…was he not?"

Clearing his throat, John leaned back and scratched at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit. "Yeah." He chuckled nervously and added, "Well, you don't forget anything, do you? Like an elephant."

Sherlock knitted his brow. "What?"

"Uh, nothing. Not important. Another one of those…colloquialisms." He grinned, because Sherlock's lips curled seemingly involuntarily into a small smirk, but the expression was quickly gone, replaced by something somewhat foreign. It was directed at the men, and if John had to put a name to it, he would call it 'considering.'

He watched as Sherlock got up, straightened himself, and remarked, "I'm going to go have a small chat with your friend."

John groaned. Rubbed his hands over his face and said, "God, Sherlock, no. Stop—I'm sure he didn't mean what he said, and even if he did, you don't want to start a scene—" He stopped, upon realizing that Sherlock was not listening to him at all, and in fact was migrating away from him and towards the table where the wrestling men sat. John sighed and considered just letting Sherlock do what he wanted, but then figured that he could get himself into some serious trouble; he knew Bill, and didn't figure him to be the overly violent type, but he had no idea about the other three or four men.

Bill was wrestling with a brunet man that John did not recognize. They were grunting and groaning far more than the exercise required, but such was the way of machismo. For his part, Sherlock stood mostly silently, slightly farther back hfrom the table than other observers. The men had not noticed him yet, and John wondered what his intentions were.

"Don't do anything stupid," John muttered, grabbing onto Sherlock's elbow. "I know it's tempting, but don't." He had been Sherlock's age once. He knew how tempting the idea of standing out was—but sometimes, it was better to blend into the crowd. Sherlock already stuck out like a sore thumb, anyway.

Sherlock did not reply. He watched the men with rapt fascination—or something meant to imitate it—and waited quietly and patiently for them to finish. The man wrestling Murray won, but the Scotsman took it in his stride and did not let it affect his good spirits. He howled with laughter and cried, "Two out of three, two out of three!"

Now Sherlock stepped forward, planting the heels of his hands on the table to effectively draw attention to himself. Both sitting men stared at him, as well as the other gathered around the table. Their little corner of the room went disconcertingly quiet, and John tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible, whilst still keeping himself near so as to pull Sherlock out of seemingly inevitable trouble.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Sherlock said, glancing between the two men. He held each of their eyes for several long seconds—it could not be interpreted as anything but a challenge. "Do you mind if I participate?"

Murray stared at him and, as he seemed to be the designated leader of the group, none of the others spoke up. Then Bill nodded and smirked, nodding towards the seat currently occupied by his previous opponent. "Yeah, alright. Move your arse, Tom."

'Tom' moved his arse, allowing Sherlock to slide into the seat, sweeping the tails of his coat behind himself so as not to sit on them. John couldn't help but snort at the ridiculously posh movement. Bill watched with amused skepticism as Sherlock sat and rested his elbow on the table. Impatiently, Sherlock stared at Bill's hand, until the redheaded man thumped his own log of an arm onto the table and wrapped his large, wide palm around Sherlock's thinner one.

It took all of John's willpower not to step forward and break it up. Sherlock could fight his own battles, and John was little more than a stranger.

"Alright," said Bill, "On the count of three."

Sherlock's brow creased in concentration, and he nodded. John saw both men's hands tighten with anticipation, and indeed held his own breath as Bill counted, "One…two…three."

Blink and you'd miss it; and John did blink.

One moment, both men had their forearms upright on the table, the next Sherlock had banged Bill's arm onto the table with enough force to topple two out of the four pint glasses sitting atop it. Bill looked just as confused as John felt—he stared at his and Sherlock's hands, mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock took his hand back, leaned back on his chair and smirked.

The assembled men clapped with a certain kind of grudging awe and respect.

"Christ," Bill said.

"You all think you're such big, strong men," Sherlock remarked. "And yet you've just lost to a feminized man. Horribly, I might add. It's something to chew on, is it not?" With that, he got up and returned to John. He said, "About time to leave, don't you think? I do."

Behind them, one of the men boomed, "Faggot!" and, although Sherlock gave no outward reaction in terms of facial expression, John saw his fists clench. There were very few things he wouldn't have given to be able to punch that man—the 'Tom' character whom had given his seat to Sherlock—in the jaw, but it would have been an incredibly dangerous move. Reprimanding one man for using a slur was one thing; punching a man in retaliation (Especially when such a high percentage of the assembled masses had the same opinion) was entirely different.

Bill, however, barked, "Oi, Tom, you pissed bastard. Sit down and shut up," and Tom, cowed, did as he was told. Bill nodded at John and John nodded back, and nothing more was said.

"Come on," John said. "I'll walk you back up on deck. The hallways can be confusing if you don't know where you're going."

They walked back up, stepping out into the dark deck ten minutes later. The cold air felt good against his hot face, and Sherlock seemed to find it refreshing as well. He reached back and held his hair off his neck—John watched as the shimmer of sweat evaporated away with the wind—and untied the ribbon, letting his hair fall back and around his face.

It wasn't as long around the face as John had first judged it to be; it reached to about his chin, and had a bit of a wild curl to it. It curved underneath his chin, tips kissing the underside of his jaw.

Sherlock slid the red ribbon into his pocket and ran his fingers through his hair, muttering, "Lord, that's cumbersome."

Not knowing how to respond to that, John stayed quiet and leaned against the railings, staring at Sherlock staring at the ocean. There wasn't much to see; just, like the previous night, the stars reflecting off the water.

Had it really only been a night ago? It felt like far longer.

"You had better get back," John murmured. "Someone is probably missing you."

"Hmm, I don't doubt it," Sherlock muttered. "Although 'missing' is not the right word. 'Hunting,' perhaps." He sighed and straightened up, although he didn't tie his hair back up, which John found strange. He would have thought that even the minor casualness of untied hair would be a major faux pas. Sherlock must have noticed him staring because he smirked crookedly and remarked, "No one will be awake this time of night, and I certainly won't tell anyone. Will you?"

"No," John replied.

They stared at each other, the knowledge that this would most likely be the last time they saw each other up close weighing heavily on their minds—or, John's at least. There was no telling what Sherlock was thinking; he was a bundle of mysteries rolled into a humanoid shape, and John didn't think he'd ever meet anyone like him for as long as he lived.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, "for everything."

"It was no problem," John replied, smiling tightly and, behind his back, digging his nails into his palm. "Saving you was my duty, and everything else was my pleasure."

To this, Sherlock did not reply. He nodded and started to head away, stopped, and turned. Here he floundered for a minute, swaying purposefully back and forth on his feet as he considered what to say. Finally, he said, "My…wedding is in three weeks…in Boston. Would you…" he stopped, because John was already smiling and shaking his head.

"I wouldn't be welcome," he said, "and I'd have no way of getting there. I'm a sitting duck as of _Titanic _docking. But thank you for the offer." Besides, he thought to himself, I don't think I can sit by and watch you be committed to someone who can't appreciate you, and won't even try.

Sherlock, whom probably had expected no other offer, nodded and turned slightly. Then cocking his head to the side and remarked, "Curious."

John asked, "What?"

"Your leg," Sherlock said, "hasn't hurt you all evening."

With that, he left. John watched his bouncing curls until the darkness consumed him. He remained on deck, thinking, until he was shivering to powerfully to remain outside.

* * *

><p>A small hand shaking his shoulder in a small, repetitive movement brought Sherlock out of slumber. He exhaled with great force, giving birth to a kind of startled grunt, and barked, "What?" towards the source of the movement.<p>

"Sorry to wake you, dear," came the soft, kindly voice of Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock opened his eyes for the first time and laid eyes on her. She was hunched over the side of the bed, a pair of towels held between her waist and one arm. The other reached towards Sherlock to land on his shoulder, out of his line of vision. She continued, "Your fiancé wants to breakfast with you."

"Tell him no," Sherlock snapped. It was a censored version of the message he'd prefer James to receive (Something along the lines of 'Fuck off') but he doubted that Mrs. Hudson would have appreciated any kind of unsavory language, or convey the message unedited even if he had spoken it in such terms. He rolled over and closed his eyes, confident that the reply would be carried to its recipient. Mrs. Hudson liked James just about as much as Mycroft did—that is to say, not quite as passionately as Sherlock, but still not at all.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Hudson sighed, "I'm afraid he's quite adamant, dear. Won't take no for an answer. You had better go meet him. He said you'll breakfast on the private promenade, so you needn't change your clothes. Just put on your dressing gown and meet him there."

Sherlock angrily flung the covers away from himself—shocking Mycroft from slumber, and why not? Suffering thrived on company—and stood, griping, "Why in the world is he so eager to speak with me that he can't give me a chance to _dress_, for God's sake?"

"He seems upset," Mrs. Hudson murmured, and scurried quickly out of the room.

After donning his dressing gown—and ignoring Mycroft's dazed inquiries—Sherlock stormed through the sitting room and onto the private promenade that connected to the room Sherlock and Mycroft shared. Sherlock had no idea what gave James the right to invite himself into their cabin, but he was not nearly so annoyed by that as he was the fact that James had interrupted the first decent night of sleep he'd had since boarding the ship.

"There had better be a good reason for this," Sherlock snapped, feeling ridiculous standing barefoot in his white pajamas and blue dressing gown. He had not even thought to slip on his slippers before traipsing outside, and his feet were airing their displeasure already. The wood on the semi-outdoor deck had not had the opportunity to be warmed by the sun, and were still chilled from the below-freezing temperatures of nighttime.

James replied, "You're my fiancé and you'll do as I say. There's no better reason in existence."

A table had been set up in the middle of the private promenade. It was set with all the paraphernalia associated with morning tea. James gestured to the chair facing away from the portholes, and Sherlock grudgingly took it. Watched balefully as James took his own seat. He, Sherlock could not help but notice, was fully-dressed all but for a jacket. Sherlock wondered if, by ensuring that he was in a state of better dress—at least when compared to Sherlock's own—he was in some way trying to exploit some kind of vulnerability on Sherlock's part.

Sherlock was loath to admit that it was working.

The room was silent for a moment, all except for the sound of the wind coming in through the open portholes. James poured Sherlock's tea for him—also a blatant display of control—and shoved it towards him with more ferociousness than the movement at all warranted. Some sloshed over the side, and Sherlock frowned as he picked it up.

"You're in quite a state," he remarked with forced ease, sipping the spilled tea from the saucer. Far too much cream and not enough sugar. Behind his cup, he pursed his lips in distate.

James looked up from under his lashes, and Sherlock nearly flinched at the sheer force of the anger he saw there. He said, "An astute observation. I'm rather upset with you."

"With me?" Sherlock snapped. "It's barely morning. I couldn't possibly have done something in my sleep to upset you!" Unless James had decided that, as Sherlock's husband, it was his decision whether or not Sherlock slept and when.

It wasn't something he would actually put past the other man.

"You've obviously forgotten the conversation we had before dinner last night," James said. He was not shouting, but Sherlock found that he wished he was. Sherlock knew how to cope with shouting; he had been around it his entire life, in one way or another. The quiet, threatening tone of James' voice was something else entirely; something disconcerting enough to break Sherlock's steel willpower clean in half.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about," he snapped in a bid to make himself seem more offended and less afraid.

James chuckled darkly, and Sherlock saw his fist clench so tightly around the handle of his teaspoon that it may have bent in half. "You haven't the faintest, hmm?" Then, in a split second, his entire demeanor changed. His face took on a furious look—jaw clenched, eyebrows tightly drawn in, eyes somehow sunken—and he growled, "Then perhaps I should jog your memory."

He stood up and started around the table. Sherlock made a move to get up and escape the other way, but James was quicker. He grabbed one arm of the wicker seat that Sherlock sat in, spun it ninety degrees, and leaned in, one palm on either arm. It effectively caged Sherlock in, and gave him no choice but to stare directly into James' eyes—unless he wanted to chance closing them which, under the circumstances, would have been possibly the worst decision he could make.

"I told you, in no unclear terms, that you were to come to me last night," James hissed, lips drawn back on his teeth like a snarling wolf. "You blatantly disobeyed me, and I won't stand for it. Do you understand me, Sherlock?"

When Sherlock neglected to reply, and tried to advert his eyes, James grabbed his face—thumb dinging harshly into one cheek, index and middle fingers into the other—and growled, "Do you _understand_?"

"You're not my husband yet," Sherlock snapped, although it was perhaps unwise. Sherlock was only one among the ranks of hotheaded youth, and even he realized that his foresight was not exactly crystal clear.

"But I will be," James said. He leaned in, next to Sherlock's ear, and said, "Things can be very simple for you, Sherlock, if you behave how I ask of you, and do as I say. I may not be your husband yet, but very soon I will be, and then I'll be perfectly within my right to take what I deserve from you…should you not honor me like a spouse should."

Sherlock gasped and, half-crazed, struggled wildly away. James, however, had better leverage and was able to subdue him simply by grabbing his upper arms and pushing him back against the chair. Now he did yell, and in the small room the noise pierced Sherlock's eardrums. "I won't be made a fool, understand?! You'll obey me if I have to beat submission into you! You'll learn that when I say jump, you say how high. How _dare _you think that you can run around below decks, with that…that _dog_?! You are my fiancé, _my_ partner! What part of that doesn't get through your thick skull?"

"James, I think you'd be wise to unhand my brother."

James' head snapped up, staring at something over Sherlock's head. Sherlock did not have to look around to know who was standing there—it was quite obvious not only from the words spoken but from the voice that spoke them—and could only bring himself to be unspeakably relieved when James' hands left him.

For a moment, it looked as though James would retaliate. Then, apparently thinking better of it, he snapped, "Excuse me," and fled the room.

Sherlock remained slumped in his chair as Mycroft's footsteps approached. His brother sat in James' vacated seat and said, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped.

They were silent for a short moment until Mycroft said, "You must be more careful, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not speak, nor even look up.

There were a few clanking sounds from the table, but Sherlock could not stir up enough curiosity to even look up. Instead, he stared down at his lap, clenching the fabric over his knees in his hands, until Mycroft pushed a teacup into his line of vision and said, "Drink."

When Sherlock only stared at it, Mycroft murmured, "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, but picked up the cup, and drank.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p>Notes: Well, this chapter took a little longer than I would have liked, but as mentioned before (I think) I was at Youmacon, which was awesome by the way! Hello to anyone who was there, especially those that attended the fanfiction panel my sister and I hosted!<p>

I'm writing a gift for someone for Johnlock challenges, so I may not be around for a little while, but never fear-I will update at least once before the end of the month. That being said, Unconstant can begin betaing for me again on the fifteenth! So next chapter will probably be beta'd by her. Let's not forget the wonderful contributions of Aiko Isari, who stepped in during my time of need! (She may still stay on, just as an extra set of eyes-dunno, haven't talked to her yet, I shall do that in band tomorrow morning!)

Thanks, as always, for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter and are anticipating the next one~

BTW, thank you so, so much for all of your reviews last chapter! I was really amazed by the sheer number I got; I was terrified that you guys were losing interest in this story. I would never ask for reviews, much less beg or command you to (Yikes!) and I know that I can't expect duplicate results because every chapter is different, but thank you so much for giving me your feedback and telling me what you liked; it was so sweet.


	9. Chapter Eight: The Art of Seduction

**Chapter Eight: The Art, Or Lack Thereof, of Seduction**

* * *

><p>It seemed the entirety of third class was hung over the next morning. John got out of bed to find the three men he shared his cabin with in various stages of unconsciousness and distress. The two Swedes were grimacing in their sleep and Mike was moaning as he stirred. There would be very few people not in a similar state, and for this reason John got dressed hurriedly and exited the cabin before any of them had a chance to fully wake up. He ran the risk of being drowned in their misery.<p>

John wasn't in the mood to drown in anything.

The decks above were mostly deserted, only a few milling bodies. Mostly women with small children, for whom it would have been unwise to indulge in drink the night before. John sat down on his typical bench—the one on which he'd been sitting the night he met Sherlock—and took out his sketchpad and commenced distracting himself. He did not smoke. The action, he found, would have reminded him too much of Sherlock. At the moment, he didn't want to be reminded.

It was best to put Sherlock Holmes behind him. Out of sight, out of mind. He would never see the man again, so there was literally no point in occupying his every thought with him.

Telling himself this did not stop the thoughts from coming. After a few minutes (And realizing that the ribbon-tied hair he was drawing resembled more a certain first class gentleman's than the little girl's a few feet from him) he grunted in frustration and slammed the book shut. He looked out over the railing, but the ocean offered no answers. Hadn't really expected it to, to be honest.

At around ten o'clock, most of third class was stirring. Need for water, food, or toilet brought them wandering out of their cabins, unsteady on their feet. Mike found his way to the deck, met up with John, and they ventured to the dining room to breakfast together. It was obvious from continuous looks that Mike, even through his own pain and lethargy, could tell there was something wrong with his friend. He did not, however, ask anything. They were British, and men at that. Even mates kept to themselves.

After breakfast, they went their separate ways—Mike most likely to sleep off more of his hangover, and John back to his bench, where he sat for over an hour and did not move except to uncross his legs when one of them fell asleep.

Then, quite suddenly, a throat cleared behind him. It had a distinctly Holmesian tone to it.

John whipped around quick enough to crack his neck, only to find that it was the wrong Holmes standing behind him. Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, was stood there in all of his more than slightly threatening glory, leaning on his umbrella-cum-walking stick, smiling in a way that John could only describe as _sinister_.

"Hello," John muttered warily.

"Good morning, Doctor Watson," Mycroft said through lips drawn tight over his teeth. Smiling, John realized, was not an action familiar to Mycroft. "I trust that you slept well after the activities last night?"

For a moment, John thought Mycroft knew about the below-decks party, but then realized that he was referring to the first-class dinner the night before. He relaxed—only marginally, because he still had no idea why Mycroft was there—and said, "Oh, uh, yes. It was…it was nice, thank you."

"I was curious, Doctor Watson," Mycroft remarked, winding around the bench and gingerly sitting himself next to John. He hung his brolly off the arm of the bench and crossed his legs. "You see, my brother got in quite late last night. Of course, there are any number of reasons why that could have been; after all, my brother is soon to be married. I assumed he had spent the night with his fiancé. You I'm sure realize why I made that particular logical leap."

Unfortunately, John did.

"However, as I found out this morning from an _incredibly_ cross James Moriarty…my brother never arrived in his cabin last night, despite being requested to." Mycroft stared pensively out over the ocean, as if trying to consider the answer to the question, although John felt he knew where this was going. "Then, our maid mentioned something strange to me—that my brother's evening suit from last night smelled like beer had been spilled on it. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you Doctor?"

"No," John muttered through tight lips.

Inclining his head, Mycroft raised an eyebrow and said, "I should tell you, Doctor, that it's not wise to lie to me. Because if you are, I will find out…and there _will _be consequences."

John shifted uncomfortably and jiggled his dangling foot, then muttered, "It wasn't my intention to upset Mister Moriarty."

"To be fair, it isn't hard to upset _Mister_ Moriarty," Mycroft remarked, and for the first time John realized that Sherlock might not be the only one holding a large amount of disdain for James Moriarty. "However, when Mister Moriarty is upset, people suffer; namely, my brother." Mycroft's face turns dark. "The only person who is allowed to make my brother suffer is me, Doctor Watson. I don't take kindly to others who do…even those who are indirectly causing it."

Holding up his hands, John shook his head and said, "Look, I didn't…I thought it was relatively harmless to show him what it was like in third class, because he'd shown me first class."

"Showing you first class was a kindness and a privilege," Mycroft snapped. "You showing him third class was…practically a punishment."

"He didn't seem to think so," John countered, and Mycroft fell silent—disconcertingly silent and unmoving—for several minutes.

"My point," John said, growing terribly uncomfortable with the silence, "is that I didn't intend…to make Sherlock suffer. I'll apologize to him, if that's what you want. If that's what you came here for."

Shaking his head, Mycroft said, "No. No, I don't want you anywhere near my brother, or him near you, again."

"You know what?" John muttered. "I saved your brother's life. He's the one who came and saw me, who insisted that I dine with you last night. None of this was my intention." No sooner had he finished this sentence than Mycroft slapped his hand on the bench, and leaned quite close to John—some kind of intimidation tactic, surely, that was working.

"My brother is but a child," Mycroft snarled. "He doesn't know what he wants, or what's good for him! That…that _Adler _woman put it in his head that if he got the attentions of another man, that James Moriarty wouldn't want him anymore. He had to make the decision between listening to the advice of a strange woman, or staying safe but miserable. He's never had to make a decision like that before. You should have guided him in the proper direction, rather than taking advantage of that."

"I don't think there _is_ a proper direction, in a situation like that," John muttered, and looked away from Mycroft's angry eyes to the sea. "Are you saying your brother was trying to seduce me?"

"Not in so many words," Mycroft said. "I don't think my brother quite thought of it as a seduction. But even if it was, are you saying you wouldn't have let him?"

John couldn't say anything without incriminating himself, but Mycroft could tell. He hummed deep in his throat and with that, stood up, took his walking stick, and started towards the stairs up to the first class promenade deck. Halfway there, he paused and turned around. "Doctor Watson…you must understand. I don't think you're a bad man, by any means. You're not a dumb man either, so you have to realize that I need to take steps in protecting my family. There are very few ways I can protect Sherlock now, but I can still ensure that there are less things I have to protect him from. You see?"

John thought about Harriet, and put himself in Mycroft's shoes and nodded solemnly. "Yes."

That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

* * *

><p>Violet Holmes swept into the room as Sherlock opened his closet, selected a charcoal grey suit, and thrust it towards him. In French, she snapped, "Wear this. No complaining," and Mrs. Hudson, whom was standing at the ready to assist Sherlock in dressing, hurried out of the room. Most likely she could tell by Mrs. Holmes' body language, and the usage of a different language that she did not want to be intruded upon at that very moment.<p>

"This?" Sherlock said with disgust, holding the suit and its hanger at arm's length. "I'll look like a funeral-goer."

"Well perhaps that's precisely what you need to look like, after what you pulled last night," his mother snapped. Seeing that he wasn't going to do it on his own, she began unbuttoning his nightshirt, as if he was once again a child whom couldn't dress himself. "Traipsing around like some…some _tart_ all dressed in red. What the…what the _hell_ were you thinking?" Her voice raised on the last part—it was a question she wanted answered—and gestured to his pajama bottoms. "Are you going to do them yourself or shall I treat you like the infant you seem determined to act like?"

Grudgingly, Sherlock's hands went to the button on his bottoms, and his mother turned her back.

"I don't know what's gotten into you, Sherlock," she muttered. "You've always been disobedient and reckless, but lately it's as though you have no sense of self-preservation at all!"

"Consider the situation you've pushed me into, Mummy, and answer that question for yourself," he snapped, removing the ugly grey suit from its hanger. His collection of day suits was much more extensive than that of evening suits, and this was one he avoided wearing.

"You don't think I _agonized _over what I was doing when I did it?" Violet Holmes snapped back. She spun around, heedless of her son's nudity—after all, she'd seen him on his birthing day, fresh from her womb; it wasn't as though it fazed her—and took the other two pieces of the suit off the hanger, needing something to do with her hands so she might not lose herself and slap Sherlock. "You don't think I treated it as a last resort? Do you think I wanted this to happen?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Sherlock said under his breath. He pulled on a crisp white shirt and began to button it, and almost as soon as he was done, his mother was there with the padded waistcoat that belonged to the suit. She shoved it onto him with more force than necessary, buttoned it, and went around back to tighten the laces. Sherlock didn't need a corset, but he hadn't been entirely truthful in telling John that the waistcoat was completely unlike one. In the front, it looked like the typical waistcoat, but in the back it had ties to help the pads in the coat conform to him and give the appearance of some sort of hourglass figure.

Hateful, utterly hateful. And his mother was pulling the thing much too tight.

"Mummy!" he snapped, flinching away from his mother's hands. "Do you want me to be able to move or _breathe _at all today?"

For a moment, it looked as though his mother might just continue and let him walk around like that all day. Then her features relaxed—Sherlock saw it in the mirror—and she went back and loosened them. Still not as loose as Sherlock would have liked, but loose enough so that walking might be a tolerable activity.

"James told me what you did last night," Mummy muttered, as she continued to pull the ties tight.

Sherlock stayed silent, knowing that if he tried to defend himself, he would only incriminate himself further.

"Well? What do you have to say for yourself?"

Slowly, Sherlock shrugged and mumbled, "Nothing, I suppose. I did go into Third Class with Doctor Watson. Why that's such a bad thing, however, I don't know. A first class man in third class stands out no more than a third class man in first class."

"Yes it does, Sherlock," his mother snapped. "It does and you know it does. Nobody in our class will remember that man in a few days time, but everyone in his will remember you. They'll remember the day a strange man came and danced with them, someone who wore clothes they'd never seen before and someone who was obviously an outsider. They'll remember you, and they'll be able to pick you out. If word starts that you've been fraternizing with third-class ruffians, following a man who _is not your fiancé_…your reputation will be ruined."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and snarled, "Oh for God's sake, I don't _care_ about my reputation! I am a grown man, I should be allowed to do what I want, say what I want, go _where I want_ but I can't." He tilted his head to the side as all of his anger and resentment welled into a ball at the nape of his neck, and propelled itself forward out of his mouth. "Do you know why I can't, Mummy? Because you've put me into this situation and sometimes, I think…sometimes I think it's because you wanted to pull me down to your level. To punish me for being the son you never wanted. You never wanted to let me be who I wanted to be. You wanted me to stay under your eye, hanging off your skirt until you weren't around anymore. So you made sure I would, didn't you Mummy?"

Violet Holmes' eyes narrowed. "What are you accusing me of?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock laughed lowly and cruelly. "You know exactly what."

Very suddenly, Sherlock found himself spun around to face his mother. She said, "Don't think for a single moment, Sherlock Holmes, that I did this just so you would be obedient. I may not be the best mother; I may not even be a good one. But I would never do something like this to a son of mine unless I absolutely had to."

"Mycroft tells me you had it planned for a long time," Sherlock muttered.

"Your father's company has been failing for a long time," Mummy replied. "We have been trying to save it for a long time. Last resorts are not often sudden epiphanies, Sherlock; else they wouldn't _be_ last resorts." She turned away from him, rubbed her chin. "It was always a possibility. But I never thought we would have to do it. Never in my worst nightmares did I think that we would actually have to resort to it." Sighing, she walked over to the bed and sat on the corner of it, and dropped her hands into her lap. "Mycroft once threatened to take you from me, you know. I think he knew. I think he knew that he wouldn't be able to take on his father's job. I think he knew that there was no saving of the Holmes Corporation to be done without outside help. That we couldn't keep the company to ourselves and that in order to keep it in the family, we'd…"

"Have to sell me," Sherlock mutters. Because that's what they had done, wasn't it? Ultimately, they had sold him for the money required to bring his father's company back from the brink of death.

"Don't say it like that," Mummy sighed, but less than halfheartedly. She watched Sherlock pick up his jacket and swing it onto his body, and when he turned back to the mirror said, "You have no idea how hard it is to be a mother."

Sherlock tightened the ribbon around his neck—feminized men did not wear ties, and the ribbons he wore to keep his collar closed made him feel like some kind of housecat—and sighed, "I know."

"Maybe someday," she mumbled, "You'll know how hard a parent's job is."

Snorting, Sherlock said, "Not if James has anything to say about it," and sat down at the vanity. He stared at himself, and his despondent mother behind him. "It's not as if I can give him children, anyway." He took a ribbon—a black one, for he had no grey ones, and it wasn't a good idea to put even a small amount of color on, when his mother was in such a mood—and grumbled, "Not as though it won't stop him from fucking me as if I can."

"Sherlock!"

"You act like you don't know it's true," Sherlock chuckled, even though it wasn't funny, and gathered all of his hair into his hand before looping the ribbon around it and tying it.

Standing up, his mother sighed, "It's our duty."

"To lie back and think of England?" Then, wryly, he added, "Or Ireland, as it were?"

Violet Holmes shook her head and whispered, "To do everything our husbands ask of us."

They met eyes in the mirror then, with a shake of his head, Sherlock got up and left.

* * *

><p>"I've spoken to Doctor Watson," Mycroft said, when they met at afternoon tea, and Sherlock's head snapped up.<p>

"What?"

"I have taken care of the issue of the doctor," Mycroft says, slowly and as though Sherlock was an infant just learning to talk. It made Sherlock angry, made him want to punch his brother. But they were in public and his mother would never forgive him. "I told him not to come near you again, and he's a smart man, I think. He'll heed my request. He knows it's in his best interest to, anyway."

Sherlock slammed his cup down onto the table—it was empty, at least, or it probably would have sloshed and stained the tablecloth, as if Sherlock would have cared—and leaned closer to his brother so he could hiss, "Who gave you permission to tell anybody whether they can or can't come near me? Last I checked, I was still allowed to govern with whom I socialize. James Moriarty hasn't taken that right from me yet, and I won't let you take it either, Mycroft."

He wanted to say more—Lord, did he want to say more. His anger was boundless and toxic, filling him up and trying to push itself up through his mouth like vomit. It was surprising that he managed to stifle himself when Gregory Lestrade wandered up to them and said, "Your fiancé was wondering if you'd like to join him and your mother and I. Mister Andrews has given me permission to show you the bridge. He told me that you have a particular interest in nautical gadgetry."

"Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when he was little," chuckled Mycroft, "and ever since, he's had a particular fascination with the sea, and seamanship."

Sherlock clutched his hands into the tablecloth. He'd always hated others revealing secrets that were his to reveal, but it has always seemed like Mycroft's favorite pastime. He wasn't sure how James new that particular fact either. He'd been truthful when he told John that James knew hardly anything about him.

It must have been his mother, he thought.

"So that's a yes?" Lestrade asked genially, and because anything was better than sitting there alone with his brother, Sherlock nodded and they followed Lestrade to the bridge deck, which was the only part of the ship that first class did not typically have access to. Although the wheel of the ship was fascinating to him—it looked much like the illustrations of the pirate ships he looked at when he was little—the rest was of little interest to him, including the inane babble of James, Mycroft, his mother, and the captain.

Greg Lestrade was not much one for talking either. He stood to the side as the captain talked about the ship that he had helped build. Inconspicuously, he wandered over to Lestrade and leaned against the wall with him, and muttered, "You're obviously a more integral part of the building team than I originally thought."

"I'm really not," Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head. "I was just in the right place at the right time."

"How so?"

"There was a…design flaw that went overlooked in the original drafts and, if I hadn't said anything, _Titanic_ would not have been so unsinkable as it is."

"A design flaw…such as there being too little room for enough lifeboats?"

Lestrade looked up, and smirked at him without amusement. "You noticed that, did you?" He sighed and crossed his arms. "That wasn't my decision. Wasn't Mister Andrew's decision either, really. The ship has certain…safeties on it that warrant the need of fewer lifeboats. It's a kind of reward system, I guess. Lifeboats clutter deck space and it looks unsightly. At least, that's what I got from the whole thing."

"No ship is truly unsinkable."

Shaking his head, Lestrade said, "You seem to be the only one that thinks so. But you shouldn't worry yourself. She'll get you there, _Titanic _will. She's as close to unsinkable as a ship will ever get. At least in my lifetime…and probably yours, too." He tilted his head to the side, considering Sherlock. "What did you and that doctor get up to last night?"

"That's a very forward question for a practical stranger."

"It was innocent," Lestrade said, but with a grin that betrayed the intended innuendo.

"The implication was anything but."

Lestrade laughed for a second, and it was almost infectious enough to make Sherlock laugh as well. However, he eventually stopped and sobered, and said, "Seriously, though. You've gotten yourself in some kind of trouble. I know you have. I also know I warned you not to, and you did it anyway."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For God's sake, don't try to run my life, Lestrade. I have enough people trying to do that already, I don't need a fourth."

"I know," Lestrade said, patting Sherlock's shoulder. "And it's not my place to try, anyway. But if you ask me…well, I'll just say this. There are certain chances that are given to us. Certain…miraculous chances that can save us, or at least make life that much better. They come very rarely, if at all. So you should take them." With a decisive gesture, a kind of 'I said what a needed' self-congratulatory nod, he moved away, towards Mycroft and James.

"Well, gentlemen, I think we should leave the captain to his work…"

Unnoticed, Sherlock slipped out the nearest door.

* * *

><p>It was on deck that Sherlock found him, just as he thought he would. Sitting on that bench, staring blankly out at the sea as if it would give him answers. He had the sketchbook in his lap, but it wasn't open and he didn't have a pencil with him, which made Sherlock think he'd only brought it along out of habit. Like a little boy with his blanket, he took comfort in having something familiar in his hands.<p>

He knew immediately that Sherlock was there—it was obvious from his hitched breath. He made no outward sign, however, of engaging, and so they sat there for a few minutes, both staring ahead at the sea, unseeing, looking for an answer.

"Your brother," John started, but stopped when Sherlock made a disgusted noise in his throat.

"I know what my brother did."

"He threatened me with some kind of inexact punishment if I came near you again," John muttered, and Sherlock knew the bitterness in his voice was intended; something John wanted Sherlock to hear, and to feel regretful for. "I'm not sure whether you coming near me counts, but I don't think I have enough luck to push it." He gathered his sketchbook up under his arm, uncrossed his legs, and started to rise. Sherlock, not intending to let this happen without at least _trying _to get a word in edgewise, grabbed John's wrist.

"Stop." John jerked his arm in an attempt to get Sherlock to release him. "Please stop. It's only fair that you give me a chance to say something, since you obviously listened to so well to my brother." He didn't know why he said 'please'—especially since the rest of the sentence had come out so aggressively—but that was ultimately what made John stop and sit back down. It was obvious, however, from the way he was sitting on the edge of the bench that he did not intend to stay if he didn't like what he heard.

Gesturing towards him, John said, "Fine. Explain yourself."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Explain myself?" He'd come to apologize for whatever his brother had said. Not to _explain himself_ like he was the one who had done wrong.

"Yes. Go on. I think I deserve an explanation for your behavior."

"I'm sorry, Doctor Watson, but I don't think I follow. I don't believe I have anything _to_ explain."

Laughing, John shook his head and muttered, "Alright fine. You're telling me that you don't think you should explain why your brother came to me this morning and told me you had me take you around on my arm last night because you wanted to make James Moriarty jealous?"

"_What_?" Sherlock snapped. He'd never heard a falser accusation in his life, and it was no surprise that it would come from Mycroft. "Make James _jealous_? You obviously don't realize how jealous of a man James Moriarty is without encouragement, Doctor." Contemptuously, he narrowed his eyes. "Let me tell you a story about a man named Victor Trevor, Doctor Watson. Until very recently, Victor Trevor was my valet, and the closest thing to a friend I've had since my mother pulled me out of school. He was your age, and he had been with me for a year already when James and I became engaged. Victor followed me to France, simply because he was my valet. When James found out, he harassed my mother into having Victor fired and sent back to England that very night."

John shifted uncomfortably. "Well…what happened to him?"

"I don't know." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. This was the first he'd allowed himself to think of Victor in over a month, and he could not say that the unease that clenched in his stomach when he thought of the subject had lightened. "One thing you must understand, Doctor, is that servants such as those employed by my family have their own rooms in the home. Victor had nowhere to call home, and no one to call family either."

"That's…" John, clearly attempting to salvage his resolve, cleared his throat. "That's incredibly unfortunate, and I'm sorry it happened, but…"

"But what?" John, Sherlock felt, did not have the right to choose his words carefully at a time like this.

"Your brother…"

Eyes narrowing once more, tilted his head up and said, "Why don't you tell me _exactly_ what my brother said, Doctor?"

John tilted his head back, sighed as he thought for a moment, and then carefully said, "That Irene Adler had put some idea in your head that if you got the attention of another man, James Moriarty wouldn't want you anymore, and that I was the first bloke that came around, and you took your chance."

The blood in Sherlock's veins seemed to stagnate all at once. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out, and finally John said, "It's true, then."

"No. It's not. It's…not in so many words." Why did it seem like nothing ever came out right when it truly needed to? Lord, interpersonal relationships were such tedious things. What had possessed him to even halfheartedly pursue one? "I…I may have been thinking of what she said when I invited you to dinner, but I can assure you that it was the farthest thing from my mind last night."

After a moment of silence, while John tried to muddle through his own twisted feelings, Sherlock decided that it was best not to tell half-truths and continued, "Irene Adler, when she said 'gain the attentions of another man,' was not talking about attentions such as walking around on someone else's arm and dancing with them." He chanced a glance up at John, and was glad to see that he had gotten the full meaning of the statement. The small relief that he would not have to explain the deeper meaning of the statement trickled into his brain.

John's jaw clenched. "Your brother said you weren't trying to seduce me."

"Well at least he got something right."

"Did he?" John glanced at him and, slowly, leaned in and inquired, "Sherlock, be honest with me. Did you or did you not realize, last night, that it would have taken only a small amount of convincing for me to do things to you that I know you've never had done?"

Rearing his head back, Sherlock demanded, "Is that a threat?"

"No! Of course not." John looked scandalized at the very idea, and Sherlock relaxed slightly. John muttered, "I…may not have worded that tactfully. But you know what I mean."

"Yes, I do. And…" the words, unbidden, rose in his throat. "And I realize that I _could_ have seduced you. But I chose not to."

"How do I know that?"

"Oh, believe me, Doctor Watson. If I had chosen to, you would have known it." At this, John cleared his throat and blushed ever so slightly, and Sherlock was perfectly content to let the doctor think it would have been so obvious from Sherlock's expertise at seduction, rather than his awkwardness and overall lack of subtlety.

Still blushing, John looked towards him and said, "Look, I…well, I know that you probably didn't have untoward intentions, but…" He sighed, and tapped his fingers against the bench, and muttered, "I can't allow myself to be pulled in ten different directions without knowing that I won't eventually be abandoned in the middle. And you…well, you'll have somewhere to go, won't you?" He reached out and squeezed Sherlock's knee. "I worry about you, though. I just…he's going to oppress you, and you don't deserve to be oppressed. Yet there's nothing I can do about it. If you won't let me."

"I _am_ letting you!" Sherlock cried, and it felt like he'd _finally_ admitted something, revealed something poignant and something that would matter, but John just smiled sadly and shook his head.

"No, you're not," John sighed. "At this point, you're just letting me watch. And that's crueler than sending me away."

John walked away, and Sherlock had the helpless feeling of having tried so hard, yet accomplished nothing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock slipped seamlessly back into the small group led around by Lestrade. They most likely hadn't noticed his absence because he'd been sulking moodily at the back of the group <em>anyway<em>, and the entire conversation with John had taken only ten minutes. It may have been, he also realized, due to clever diversion by Lestrade, but that was only a theory.

A theory that was confirmed when Lestrade looked over James' head and smiled at him expectantly. Sherlock just bowed his head and picked at a nail, pretending he hadn't even seen Lestrade's face. The other man walked away, and Sherlock figured he would never know what was on Lestrade's mind, or even what had possessed him to think that Sherlock was capable of changing his own destiny in the way he'd suggested.

"Time for tea, I think," Mycroft muttered, only a few minutes after Sherlock reappeared. He looked up at Sherlock, and gave a nod in the general direction of the verandah café. "Mummy will be waiting for you. James and I will be along in a short while. I have a few words I wish to exchange with him." With the way Mycroft's eyes gleamed, Sherlock did not feel the need to as what those words were—it was blatantly obvious. With a great heaving sigh, he turned around and headed towards the café.

His mother was, indeed, waiting for him along with Mrs. Turner, the Marquesa of Morella, and a cup of tea already prepared with two biscuits on a plate where he was designated to sit. His mother had taken notice of his lack of appetite as of late, and this was not an unfamiliar sight at teatime. He sat down, greeted, "Hello, Mummy," and unfolded his napkin over his lap. Then, glancing up at the other two women, said, "Good afternoon, ladies."

"Good afternoon, Sherlock," Mrs. Turner said sweetly, in her welsh-accented raspy smoker's voice. "We were just talking about you, my boy." Mrs. Turner was about ten years older than Mummy, which would place her in only her fifties, but her hair had already turned snow white, and her face showed more years than would be expected on a woman of her age. She'd lost weight, as well, and Sherlock didn't need his deductive skill to know it was due to her son's recent death. People had talked of little else when it had first happened, and Sherlock had been at the funeral besides.

Mrs. Turner was accompanying her husband on business, needing a change of scenery. A need no one could fault her for, after her recent trauma.

Not unkindly, Sherlock said, "And what were you talking about, Mrs. Turner?"

"Oh, you know," she said vaguely, smiling genially. "The wedding. Oh, it's such a happy coincidence that George and I will be in the states at the same time as your wedding. I do love a wedding." She smiled down at her tea, probably dwelling on her love of weddings, and Sherlock heaved a sigh and leaned against the table.

"I'm glad someone's looking forward to it," he muttered under his breath, and took his elbows off the table when his mother slapped his elbow with her teaspoon.

"Oh, we all feel that way at first," the Marquesa said, smirking as if she held all the secrets. Sherlock never had liked the woman much. Too haughty. "But it all works out, right Violet?"

"That it does," Mummy replied, nodding absentmindedly. "But, come Hell or highwater, the wedding will happen."

Looking up, Mrs. Turner said, "Oh, I did hear that you were having problems with the planning! What was all of that about?" She and the Marquesa leaned in eagerly—first class women were always eager to hear of the strife of others, for it made them feel more secure—and lent an ear to Mummy for whatever tale of woe she felt like dramatically spinning.

Knowing Violet Holmes, it was sure to be an entertaining one. If nothing else could be said of the woman, she was a good storyteller.

"Well, first of all, you don't even _want _to know how hard it was so convince Sherlock that the wedding should be held in Boston, instead of on the estate…"

"Why _are_ you having it in Boston?"

"The nature of the event called for neutral territory," sighed Mummy. "There are many people in James' family that are not pleased that he's marrying Sherlock, and we didn't want to invite unsavory guests into our home, nor did we want to deal with the ramifications of holding it in Ireland. Besides, Patrick Moriarty has land in Boston, quite a lovely estate so I'm told, so it's only reasonable that we take advantage of it. Sherlock may as well become acquainted with the properties his husband will one day own." Mummy shook her head and continued, "Anyway, it was like pulling teeth to get Sherlock to agree to anything, much less a transatlantic voyage. He's just like his father—digs his feet in like a bull. He was adamant and, once the venue was finalized, refused to assist in any of the decisions."

Listening to his mother speak about him like he wasn't even there made Sherlock grit his teeth together, but he didn't comment. There would have been no logic behind it. Causing a scene would not be worth it. Besides, his mother did not have the full story, and he comforted himself with that.

The real reason why he had not cooperated was his utter opposition to the marriage. He'd only used objections to the venue as an excuse.

"Then let me tell you what happened with the invitations—my God, it was a disaster. I told Sherlock to mail them and he —I still can't believe he did this—he took half of them and _threw them out_ because he didn't like the people they were being sent to."

"Well," Mrs. Turner reasoned. "It's his day, you know. He shouldn't have people he doesn't like there."

Mummy rolled her eyes. "Oh, please. Sherlock couldn't care less about the wedding. He just did it to make my angry." She sighed and glanced at him. "The next stage of his feminization deals heavily with obedience. Maybe then he'll listen to me." Looking back down at her tea, she muttered, "Or at least to James."

This was where the flood of realization became so strong that Sherlock's head finally went under, and he began to drown. The abstractness of 'I will never be free again' finally became a reality.

There would be no way to fix it. There would be no one to help him, only those that pitied him. His life would be a waking nightmare. He would be like a well-trained dog; a mindless minion forced to do everything James Moriarty told him to. He would be a slave.

The phrase 'The wedding will happen come hell or high water' stuck in his mind, like a dizzy spell that refused to pass. For some reason, he'd always allowed himself to think that nothing would come to fruition. What a fool he was.

Panic threatened to overwhelm him, and he stared down at his tea, clenching his fists.

Then his head shot back up, and he said, "May I be excused? I don't feel well."

"For God's sake, Sherlock," Mummy muttered, but then she looked up, and got her first look at her son's genuinely pale face. Her eyes widened. "Perhaps you should."

"Are you ill, dear?" Mrs. Turner asked.

"I believe so," Sherlock whispered. He stood up, and walked out, clutching his head, which refused to stop spinning, refused to be quiet.

He'd intended to find his way to John, but he only made it as far as that bench on which they'd talked earlier before he had to sit. He buried his face in his hands and breathed deeply, attempting to calm down. Willing his head to stop pounding.

"Sherlock?"

Looking up at John, Sherlock muttered, "If I let you help me, will you?"

"Of course," John said, sitting down next to him. He placed his hand on his shoulder, patting it comfortingly. "You're awfully pale, Sherlock. Are you okay?"

"I need your help," Sherlock muttered, irritable in his pain and confusion and panic. "I can't think, John. Or I'm thinking too much. Only I don't know what to think. I thought I was alright, I never thought it would—I can't do it, John. I just can't. I'm not that strong. I'm not. I'd rather die, John. I'd rather die than marry him, John. My head, _fuck_ my head is pounding."

"Shhh," John attempted to pull Sherlock's head down onto his shoulder, but Sherlock resisted, and he ceased the attempt. Instead, he tucked his thumbs against Sherlock's temples and, rubbing, said, "Calm down, now. Deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Shhh." Biting his lip, and cautiously continued, "What can I do for you?"

"I don't know," Sherlock hissed. "I don't…" Impulsively, he took John by the cheeks, and pulled John's face towards his own. He kissed him—only it was more like collision than a kiss—and desperately moved his lips against John's, willing the noise in his head to leave. Though it did not flee entirely, it dimmed to a dull roar and, when he pulled back, he felt he could think again. And now he did slump with his head against John's shoulder, and murmur, "I'd say I don't know what came over me, but it would be a lie."

John didn't say anything, but he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and patted his back. "It's okay."

"Is this okay?"

"Yes," John murmured into his hair. "Yes, it's more than okay."

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p>Notes: Thanks so much for reading, guys! And I'm really sorry that it took so long to update this time around. There were conflicts, mostly life-wise but also internet-availability-wise and contact-with-betas-wise, but I think things have straightened themselves out for the most part! :)<p>

Rating will more likely than not be going up come this next chapter, so prepare yourselves for that and, if you want to get updates, I suggest either following the story now (Because FFN does that thing where it doesn't show M-rated stories without special filters) or following my Tumblr (detective inspector narwhal, no spaces) so you'll know when it's updated.

Thanks so much for reading guys! I hope you all had happy holidays, and that your new years will be filled with joy!


	10. Chapter Nine: Is it Proper?

**Chapter Nine: Is it Proper?**

* * *

><p>"We can't stay here."<p>

John looked up to see Sherlock staring out over the deck. It was empty, but wouldn't stay that way for long, and John nodded in agreement. He let Sherlock go and watched him sit up, then get up and walk around the back of the bench. He leaned there for a minute, staring out at the ocean, then back towards the main body of the ship, and he mumbled, "I need to sever myself from James Moriarty, if not my entire family."

"Yeah," John said, prompting.

The prompt did not translate to Sherlock, or he just chose to ignore it. He instead gripped John's elbow and tugged. John rose and followed, as Sherlock had obviously known he would. They walked down the deck, climbed the ladder to the upper decks, and along the promenade deck. They were walking fast; too fast to be casual. Thankfully there were very few other people on the deck, and for those who were the tried and true 'hear/speak/see no evil' policy stayed firmly in place.

"Where are we going?" John asked, but Sherlock did not reply. He instead led him through a door (The fourth or fifth identical door they'd passed; heavy metal, painted white, with 'A deck' painted on it in red lettering) and down a long hallway. They were in the first class cabins, John abruptly realized, and for the life of him he could not fathom why Sherlock had brought him _here_ of all places. It was not exactly inconspicuous, or conductive to Sherlock avoiding his family.

They stopped in front of a door. Room 221. John frowned at it for a long moment, and Sherlock said, "This is my cabin. I share it with my brother, but I doubt he'll be returning tonight. Lady Anthea has her own cabin on B deck and I'm almost certain that he plans to spend the night with her." Sherlock glanced at him and added, "Aside from my brother, no one would have any reason to come in here tonight. My mother took my anxiety earlier for sickness and allowed me to return to my rooms. If I don't appear at dinner, shell assume I'm still unwell."

Although John did not know who Lady Anthea was, he nodded in understanding. No one would look for Sherlock here. They would be alone and have to plan some kind of strategy.

What this would involve was a very foggy area still for John. He had not forgotten the kiss; Sherlock's lips desperate against his and his hands clinging to John's shoulders. Still, it seemed unlikely, like too much to hope for that Sherlock wanted him as more than a way to hide. This was no storybook, no fairytale, and people of different classes did not actually ride off together into the sunset after a life of hardship. It would not be so simple, and John knew that.

Yet…and yet…

"Do you think you can find your way back here on your own?" Sherlock asked, after giving John a moment to acclimatize himself with his surroundings.

John nodded. Being in India, on unfamiliar streets with no one to give him directions had given him a knack for navigation unrivaled by any civilian, and many even within the service. Even in terrain so unlike that in India—where India had been confusing in its dark alleyways and twisted streets, this ship was confusing in its uniformity, and the maze of corridors that all looked the same—he felt confident he could find his way back here.

"Good." Sherlock unlocked the door, then handed John the key. "Go back to your cabin, retrieve your art supplies, and come back here."

"My art supplies?" John questioned, but Sherlock shook his head—a gesture that anyone would immediately recognize as translating into 'not here'—and shoved on John's shoulder.

"Go, and be quick. I can account for who will be inside the room, but not outside it, and many people on this ship know either my mother or my fiancé." Sherlock reached down and retrieved John's sketchbook from where it had been shoved, almost as an afterthought, underneath his arm. "I'll take this."

Bewildered, John watched Sherlock slide the sketchbook underneath his own arm. Sherlock smiled—lord, but he could be charming when he wanted to be—and John could no longer resist the urge that had been building inside of him since Sherlock, in such desperation, had grabbed him on deck. Carefully, he stepped close and took Sherlock by the back of the neck, to bring him down for a kiss. Sherlock responded limply, like he wasn't quite sure what to do. It, therefore, did not last long, and when John pulled back he hurriedly explained, "Just wanted to…make sure."

Sherlock nodded and reached behind him to open the door to the room. He slipped in with only a mumbled, "Hurry, John," and closed the door behind him.

The trek back below decks was taken with swiftness and a certain amount of paranoia. It was hard not to think that everyone had their eyes on him, even though at this point almost everyone in first class was at dinner and he encountered far fewer people than he ever had before on the usually-crowded promenade deck. The thought occurred to him that he really shouldn't even know how trafficked the promenade deck was. It was strange how much his life had changed in just the past three days.

He made it to his cabin on D deck unmolested, retrieved his art supplies (Pencils, some charcoals—not really supplies so much as a small kit) and made his way back out. Here, however, he encountered a problem in the form of Mike, who ran up to him from the opposite direction and grabbed his arm. "John! Where have you been? I haven't seen you since breakfast. Aren't you going to eat dinner? You weren't there last night, either, come to think of it." Mike frowned and looked at him. "You didn't eat a lot at breakfast. Are you alright?"

Sighing, John shrugged off the friendly hand on his shoulder—the bad one, and some of the faith in Mike that he'd had previously faded—and said, "Look, Mike, I really can't explain right now, but it's an emergency and I can't really chat." Was it an emergency? He really didn't know. But he knew that Sherlock expected him to make haste, and talking to Mike Stamford was not in the equation.

"Well…alright," Mike said, with his earnest face so open, and John had the decency to feel a bit sorry for his short-temperedness. "Just…you're alright, yeah? You'd tell me if there was something seriously wrong?"

Now John reflected that his life had changed in more than just one way recently. He'd also regained an old friend, the kind of old friend that was good to have because you never fear that they were putting their own best interests before what was right. Mike might have been bumbling, clumsy, and forgetful, but he would also rather bite off his own arm than purposefully hurt someone he considered a friend.

"I'm fine," John said carefully—and honestly, for the most part—and stopped to turn towards Mike, and squeeze his shoulder with the hand that wasn't holding his bag of pencils and charcoals. "There's just…there have been circumstances to come up that I can't explain to you—mostly because I'm not exactly sure what's going on myself—but once I do, and I've gotten everything sorted, you'll be the first to know, and the first I'll explain everything to. Okay?"

Mike nodded, despite still looking confused and not altogether placated. It wasn't much of John's concern, however, whether Mike _liked_ the circumstances he'd laid out, just as long as he accepted them. With another pat of Mike's shoulder, John was gone and navigating his way back up, out of the bowels of the ship and on deck, and thence to the nearly-deserted promenade deck. He moved quickly, because Sherlock was waiting for him—and his pencils, for whatever reason—and also because the deserted deck was rather eerie.

There was not even a soul walking through the hallways, but that did not stop him from surreptitiously glancing over both shoulders twice before unlocking the door to Sherlock's cabin and allowing himself in. The cabin looked much like Irene Adler's cabin the night before, if with far fewer garments and knick-knacks strewn about the place. There were, however, papers scattered liberally about most horizontal surfaces—John noticed his own sketchpad, set seemingly thoughtlessly upon the edge of one side table—and the typical detritus of two young men sharing the same space.

Also, John realized, a skull on the mantel. This he stared at with somewhat morbid fascination, and wondered whether this was a memento of Sherlock's or Mycroft's. Something told him it was much more likely to be Sherlock's.

"John?"

Without looking towards Sherlock, John cleared his throat and gestured vaguely towards the skull, with the hand that held the bag containing his art supplies. Rather unnecessarily, he muttered, "It's…'s a skull."

Sherlock nodded and mumbled, "Yes, it's…just an old friend."

"Um." John glanced back at the skull, but Sherlock did not elaborate and John had to wonder if that was supposed to mean that the skull was Sherlock's friend, or the skull had once belonged to Sherlock's friend. It occurred to him that he really did not know much about Sherlock. The excitement and urgency of earlier, and of last night was wearing off, leaving him feeling awkward and unsure of how to proceed.

"Is it proper, then? To keep a skull on the mantelpiece?" John asked, and the inquiry succeeded in making Sherlock smirk a bit to himself. John found that he liked the feel that Sherlock's smile, especially one he had put there, caused in his stomach. The same feeling from last night, and yet amplified. Amplified because he now knew how those lips felt against his own.

"It's quite proper, I assure you," Sherlock chuckled, and crossed the room to stand next to John. He'd come from some side room, John now realized; not from elsewhere in the large parlor. A door to the left was open, and John could only assume that it lead to a bedroom. He tried to get a glance inside, but the door was not open at a wide enough angle. He turned back around as Sherlock picked the skull up off the mantel and said, "Mycroft and Mummy loathe and despise it. They've hidden it on me a number of times. Although neither of them hates it as much as Mrs. Hudson."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Our maid." Sherlock set the skull down, still smirking slightly, and said, "I'll save the story of why for a time when you're not poised to run away for the smallest reason."

This made John falter, and he floundered for a response, but Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't bother trying to tell me that you're not wary of me. I know you are." He pushed away from the mantel, and as he neared John tilted his head up to maintain eye contact. Sherlock's eyes bored into his, flicking as though reading him. Then, with slowness that belied apprehension, he said, "I…I want you to know that you're the only person I trust right now. I don't even trust myself, but I trust you. But I need to know that you won't betray my trust."

The enormity of the situation piled itself onto John, and made him almost gasp for air. Sherlock thought of him as a real, honest-to-god hero. John was his _salvation_. He'd never felt so honored, and yet so terrified and put-upon. Still, it would have been calamitous to leave Sherlock without an answer, and if he was sure of one thing, he was sure that he would never willingly do anything to betray Sherlock's trust. It was a realization that he'd come to only recently—within the last twelve seconds, actually—but he knew it with a deep certainty, like he knew his name was John Watson.

"I would never," John assured, and kept very still as Sherlock searched him once more. Then, with a satisfied nod, Sherlock smiled slightly and John knew that he'd passed the test.

With a vague nod somewhere behind John, Sherlock said, "I have something to show you."

In the bedroom that Sherlock had come from, there was a safe in the closet, hidden by a door that on first examination looked like a mere wall panel. Opening it, Sherlock explained, "I believe all of the first class staterooms have these. James has the family safe in his room; it has some of our shared valuables in it, as well as money to cover unforeseen expenses. Usually, I place all articles of importance in there." He turned the monstrous dial—surely it had to be for show because there was no real _application_ for a dial that big—and John heard it click. Before he opened it, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder and added, "However, two days ago, James gave me an early wedding present. Not wanting my brother to know about it—and certainly not wanting to wear it—I hid it in here.

"Okay." The word sounded impatient to John's own ears, but Sherlock didn't comment or react except to turn back around and open the safe. From it, he pulled a large dark blue box. When opened up, it revealed a necklace sporting an enormous jewel on the end. John's breath caught in his throat, awed was he at the sheer magnitude of the gem. He mumbled, "Is that a sapphire?"

"No, a diamond." Sherlock pulled it out, and held it dangling from his hand in obvious encouragement for John to touch it. It, however, was no less overwhelming when held—as Sherlock should know, because he'd been trying to wrap his head around what he'd so suddenly gained possession of for the past two days—and John only brushed his fingers across it briefly.

"That's worth more than I'll ever earn in my life," John said, but without grudge. It was a plain fact, and Sherlock nodded in agreement.

Instead of placing it immediately back in its box, Sherlock took it in his hands and carried it with him to the vanity seat, where he sat down and turned it over and over in his hands. He said, "I have a request to make of you, John. I will understand perfectly well if it's not something you feel you can do, but I want you to at least consider it—carefully—before you refuse. It's not proper, not really, but there's no way to go about what I'm attempting to go about without impropriety."

"And just what are you attempting to go about?" John asked, although he was relatively sure he knew the answer already.

"Two nights ago, Irene Alder pointed out to me that James Moriarty was attracted to me for my…innocence, we'll say."

Snorting, John said, "You can say virginity, Sherlock. I'm not unfamiliar with the concept." He was not unfamiliar with the concept of taking it, either; although that was not something he was going to mention to Sherlock.

A good thing, too, because Sherlock's face made a weird contortion at the word, and John realized that it may not have been so much for his benefit as Sherlock's that the word 'virginity' had been circumnavigated.

"And anyway," John ventured quickly, "that doesn't answer my question."

Sherlock snapped, "If you'll give me chance, doctor, I'll get to that."

Putting up his hands, John acquiesced with, "Alright, okay. Just…take your time." It was sarcastic, and he knew Sherlock could tell, but he felt it was justified. They were on a bit of a tight schedule, after all. Despite what Sherlock seemed to believe, they had only a few hours to figure out what to do before someone at _least_ poked their head in the room. John couldn't believe that any mother would let her sick child return to his room and not come and check how he was. Even—or maybe especially—a mother like Violet Holmes.

He leaned back against one of the four posts on the bed and impatiently waited for Sherlock to speak.

Finally the younger man said, "I think the only way to truly shake James Moriarty is to spoil the innocence he so covets."

"Okay," John said slowly, at once apprehensive and prompting.

This time Sherlock actually did pick up on the prompting tone in John's voice. "If I show myself to another man—or a woman, for that matter, but that's not an opportunity that's presented itself—if I just _revealed _myself," he added, when John's eyes widened in alarm, entirely too capable of seeing where this was leading, "to you, and you drew me as proof, it may be enough." Looking off to the side, he mumbled, "Maybe…" as though to himself, as though considering further options should this plan fail.

John stepped closer, wordless and eyebrows furrowed, as Sherlock stared down at the carpet. He had a look on his face that John could recall seeing in school; the look of a student working hard at a problem, internally navigating convoluted formulas. Obviously, Sherlock had put a lot of thought into this; or at least was trying to navigate the logistics of an epiphany. That was why John did not automatically refuse—despite being asked by Sherlock to consider the proposal.

"Sherlock," John mumbled, bowing his head to get a better looking at Sherlock's face. "Why are you asking me to do this?"

"I just told you—"

"No." Not without gentleness, John took Sherlock's face between his hands and made him look up. After staring—almost glaring—at him for several long seconds, he said, "Are you asking me to do this because you trust me, or because I'm the only person who can do this for you? Am I no different to you than any other man—or woman—who happens to be present, and who can draw? If…if Irene Adler could draw, would you be doing this with her instead?"

For a moment, Sherlock's mouth worked without sound. Then, finally, he said, "Are you saying that if you were, you wouldn't do it for me?"

"Answer my question first," John snapped, even though he had a queasy suspicion that the answer would not be what he wanted to hear, and that he'd still do whatever Sherlock asked of him because, God dammit, if it wasn't the Hippocratic Oath it was his own misplaced sense of justice.

Or perhaps something else. Something he didn't want to admit even to himself.

"In that case, we're both going to have to go answerless, Doctor Watson. Because I don't know."

John turned away, unspeakably frustrated, and snapped, "Would you _stop_ that? John, it's John! If you can do one thing, can you please, please call me what I ask you to call me? I get that you're pissed off—believe me, I can tell. You don't have to be so completely fucking pretentious that you call me by my title to tell me _how_ pissed off you are because despite not being educated in some kind of tight-arsed private school, I'm smart enough to figure out when someone's pissed at me."

Deafening silence dominated the room. Neither of them even fidgeted. John stared out the window, and Sherlock stared at the back of his head. John tried to say something—to apologize, to explain himself. But the words got stuck in his throat, and he gave up.

"I just," John mumbled, "Don't think this is a good idea. What will happen to you once you're on your own? I know that you don't like the idea of marrying him, but you can't separate yourself from your entire family. Who will you have?"

"You," Sherlock said, with a strange half-shrug.

This gave John pause, but he bulled forward nevertheless. "Sure, yeah, but…Moriarty. He's a powerful guy. He'll…he'll do everything he can to make sure your life is a living hell. Don't you think? Don't you think there are better ways to do this; ways that won't make him as upset?" Perhaps it was a bit of his own self-preservation talking.

"Are you saying that I should be careful of his _feelings_ as I'm planning how to leave him?" Sherlock inquired, not at all kindly, and snorted derisively. "The time for obedience and respect has gone, if they actually ever existed." Sherlock pushed away from the closet doorjamb and crossed the room to stand in front of John. "Do you know what my proper, respectable fiancé threatened me with?"

John stayed still. The question was of course rhetorical, and he was finding it was better to let Sherlock monologue with no interruptions.

"He told me he would take was he desired if I was not inclined to give it."

Once he understood Sherlock's somewhat cryptic wording, John's stomach churned. Somewhere inside of him, he'd always thought Moriarty capable of such things—so much evil in such a little man surely concentrated the substance—but to have it here, in front of him…

Well, it was no wonder Sherlock had been in such a state earlier.

So John nodded and murmured, "Alright. I'll do it."

Sherlock bobbed his head in acknowledgement, almost to himself, and glanced at the carpet. After a moment, he nodded again and said, "Well, do whatever you do to…get ready. And I'll get myself ready."

Inexplicably nervous, John walked out the door, closed it softly behind him, and stepped over to the table where his sketchbook and pencil bag laid. It was the first time he'd had such a setting at his disposal—his 'studio,' of course, had always been that one little hostel room in France, if he had not been drawing from memory. To have something to do, he began rearranging furniture. One chair was moved to a corner of the room, the sofa was pushed back and the other chair put in its place. One side table, the shorter of the two, he moved in front of the chair. The other side table and the coffee table joined the chair in the corner.

He sat his sketchbook, open to a clean page on the table, opened his pencil bag, and sharpened his charcoals to points.

Then Sherlock came out.

For some reason John had been expecting him to walk out in the altogether, but he didn't. He was wearing a robe, a blue silk one that went all the way to his calves. On his collarbone was the necklace, and in his hands were a violin and bow.

"What's…what's this for, then?" mumbled John, gesturing to the violin.

"You're an artist," Sherlock said, "and you know how the human body works. You could probably draw what you believed me to look like naked, even if you'd only ever seen me fully-clothed. There needs to be evidence in the picture that it was drawn from life-that I actually stood in front of you, naked. Thus the violin, because you probably wouldn't have drawn me with props unless they were from life. And this." Sherlock gestured to the necklace, then gave a smirk that looked a bit more like a spasm. "Because you wouldn't have known about it had it not been for me telling you. Although I have to admit, this is more a _fuck you_ than anything else."

John felt a nervous grin cross his face as well. He'd been wondering where the seemingly random anecdote about the necklace was going. "I'll try to convey the message." Then, turning towards the mantle, he said, "You can stand there, I think. If you want. We could also move the chair or the sofa back over here, but—"

"No, this is fine." Sherlock stepped towards the mantelpiece, and John found himself staring at the other man's bare feet. They were pale, delicate. Obviously did not often see the sun, or have uncovered contact with the ground. Feet were not something that typically interested him, but because they were so bare, on a man that was usually so covered up, it struck something deep inside of him. It was almost intimate, even compared to Sherlock being pressed against him in dance the previous night.

Touching skin through layer upon layer of fabric, and actually seeing it uncovered were two very different things, although when asked why John wouldn't have been able to explain. Sherlock's uncovered feet were a vulnerability, and at the same time seductive in their bareness.

"Here?" Sherlock asked, placing himself just to the left of the fireplace.

"That's fine," John said, and sat down in the chair. Still staring at the fine-boned instep revealed below the low-hanging dressing gown.

Then Sherlock dropped the dressing gown from his shoulders, and all thoughts of feet flew from John's mind, as an expanse of pale back was revealed. As expected, he was slim, but not without muscle. There was not a scar on him, and the only blemishes were the pinpoints of light brown freckles. They scattered down his back, over his buttocks and own his thighs. It was André all over again, although of course there were far fewer on Sherlock than there had been on André. It was a light sprinkling, liberal across shoulders and shoulder blades and then more conservative as they continued down his back. Elegant.

As was the slope of his back, convex at shoulders and concave in his lower back before curving out again, where his bum emerged, demarcated by two dimples on either side of his spine. They were perfectly thumb-sized, John could not help but notice.

From below his bum came two muscled, shapely thighs. They flexed as he put his weight on them, each of them in turn as he fidgeted nervously. The suits had hinted at such a body, but to actually see it was an entirely different thing.

He was gorgeous, every fine-boned, creamy-skinned inch of him, and all John could think about was tracing his tongue from freckle to freckle, from shoulder all the way to ankle, where a lone circle sat on the very center of his tendon.

Sherlock turned around. John slowly came to the realization that there was arousal heavy in his trousers.

"Is it proper," Sherlock mumbled, as he picked at his violin—making sure it was correctly tuned, John could only fathom, "for an artist to have an erection whilst doing his work?" Under his lashes, he looked up at John. The corner of his mouth quirked.

John chuckled and scratched the back of his neck. "Ah, well, no. But," here he cleared his throat, and gestured for Sherlock to take his place. He did so, and if there was a light blush on his cheeks, slight redness on his chest, a noticeable swelling to flaccid penis, John pretended not to notice. "But I promise I will be the pinnacle of professional."

Smiling at the floor, Sherlock shifted in a comfortable stance. He would be standing for quite a while, which was why most people sat for portraits, but it just seemed appropriate, with his height and his figure, not to mention the goal being a display of independence and sitting or laying down was submissive in nature, that Sherlock be standing up. He lifted the violin to his shoulder, placed his chin on the rest. He stood open, not a single bit of him hidden as though in modesty or shame. Even his hair fell so that his eyes were completely uncovered.

"Keep your eyes open," John murmured, when Sherlock closed them, and found himself the full focus of Sherlock's piercing stare. He cleared his throat again. "Yes, just like that. That's…" He wanted to say beautiful, but John was not sure how Sherlock would react to that, and so did not continue. Merely put charcoal to paper and began to draw.

* * *

><p>It took an hour. During that time, John's attention became less focused on the Sherlock standing before him, and instead on the Sherlock drawn on paper. In a way, it was just as flattering, and Sherlock wasn't vain enough to be insulted even if John's attention had merely strayed from him in general.<p>

Every once in a while, though, John's eyes would glance up, through lashes and over the upraised top of his sketchpad. For the first few minutes, he smiled reassuringly, and Sherlock became slowly more relaxed—and John too, for that matter. Eventually, his blood cooled from hot arousal to a kind of simmering contentment, and he was able to focus on other things. Able to let his mind wander, as the necessity of piloting his body fell to the wayside in favor of stillness. John, across from him, became focused and intense and Sherlock found himself staring over his head, rather than in his eyes, because for once he understood how it was to be pierced by a gaze.

Then finally, John sat up and placed his charcoal aside, brushed off his blackened hands, and blew the excess dust off the picture.

"Done," John murmured, as he took a moment to admire his masterpiece. Sherlock didn't want to look, not really—he'd never liked portraits of himself—but something made him come around the back of John's chair, as he wrapped his dressing gown back around his body. He stooped so he could see from a fair vantage point, and his breath caught.

It was like looking at a complete stranger, and yet he knew it was himself.

"Is this how you see me?" Sherlock murmured, reaching out his fingers, and stopping just short of touching the still unset charcoal.

"This is how you look," John chuckled, slightly bemused as he folded the sketchbook closed.

"No it's not."

John turned to look at him, confused, and Sherlock felt the urge to kiss him build up so suddenly that it made his breath hitch. Not being able to resist, he leaned in and caught John's lips, pressed their mouths together firmly, pressed his nose into John's cheek. John inhaled sharply through his nose, and skirted his fingers hesitantly up Sherlock's neck, over his cheek and around the back of his head.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, still no more than an inch away from John's face even after their kiss ended.

"My pleasure," John said. It could have been twisted into an innuendo, had either of them been of that particular mindset, but the air in the room was far too thick for such filthy jokes, and Sherlock merely kissed him again, softer this time, before straightening up.

"I wouldn't have, by the way," Sherlock said as he took the sketchbook from John. "Let anyone else do this, that is. I think I told you I trust you." He stood there for a long minute, even though the thought of retreating into the bedroom to put his clothes back on was more than attractive. It felt good, though, to be standing there with only his dressing gown on, in front of John. The knowledge that John, if he so wished, could pull the string and send the gown pooling back down to the floor gave rise to a peculiar, heavy sensation in his lower stomach.

Of course, John did not do this. But he did wrap a hand around the back of Sherlock's thigh and pull him closer, so his knees butted right up against the arm of the chair. He murmured, "I'm glad," and dropped a few gentle kisses on Sherlock's hip.

Sherlock had never been touched that way before. A brief flash of terror passed over his mind, and he almost jerked away, but something—perhaps the fact that John obviously intended the move to be more tender than lustful—kept him from it, although he did flinch, and John felt it.

He stopped, said, "Sorry," but did not move away, and Sherlock found that he appreciated that.

"It's alright," Sherlock said, and found he meant it, and Sherlock saw the very moment, the very _instance_, when John realized he really did have Sherlock's compete and utter trust.

Now he did take his hand away. Cleared his throat. "You'll want to, um, get dressed. I think…Well, we can't stay here forever, you know, and if nothing else they have no idea where my cabin is, so…"

Sherlock nodded his agreement, able to see what John was implying. "Alright."

He reentered the bedroom and went to the closet, where he stood for nearly ten minutes in silent confliction. All of these suits, these terrible, _stupid_ suits…they wouldn't do. Hiding meant blending in, especially on a ship where so many people knew you were. He would certainly not be able to take them with him when he disembarked either, not if the plan he was forming came to fruition. For a moment, he considered wearing just one of the shirts and a pair of trousers, but even they were distinctive in design.

No, this would not do.

Mycroft had chosen to keep his more casual clothing in his suitcases, as they didn't really need to hang by necessity as Sherlock's did. These suitcases were where Sherlock found himself digging, looking for shirt and trousers that would fit him, considering the fact that his brother had some considerable bulk over him. Although, it warranted mentioning, that Mycroft had started losing weight right about the time their father died, and hadn't started putting it back on yet. In fact, Sherlock's engagement had only seemed to make it worse.

It was all Sherlock could do no to think of this, not to think of how his brother would react to his treachery—he'd spent _eight years_ not giving a damn what Mycroft thought, why did he care _now_?—as he searched through his brother's clothes. Eventually, he found a pair of trousers and a shirt that fit him relatively well, and donned them speedily, along with a pair of his own braces because, thankfully, braces were seemingly the only thing that did not change when feminized.

Then, contemplatively, he sat down on Mycroft's side of the bed, next to his nightstand, and slowly opened the drawer there. Several French letters laid within, in their foil wrapping, and although he hesitated, Sherlock eventually grabbed one and slipped it into his pocket.

He closed the drawer before he could think about his actions and come to be embarrassed for regretful, and hurried out of the room.

"Do you have a knife?" Sherlock asked, without giving John any time to react to his sudden change in style. "I know you must, because you sharpened your charcoals with something."

"Um, yeah." John patted his pockets, found what he was looking for, and pulled out a small pocketknife "Why?"

"It's quit sharp, yes?" Sherlock asked, already migrating towards the mantel, over which a large decorative mirror hung.

"Yes…"

"Good." Sherlock set the knife on the mantel and retrieved the ribbon he'd shoved into his pocket before leaving the bedroom, to wrap it around his hair. It was the last time he'd ever have use for one of these ribbons, if he had his way, and he relished the experience of wrapping it, tightening it into a firm knot, then setting the knife to the area of hair just above the ribbon's knot. In a few swift motions, he'd cut off all the hair and had a neat little bundle sitting in his palm.

John, behind him, looked gobsmacked, and Sherlock smirked as he turned around and waved the lock of hair in his face. "A memento for James."

"You just," John muttered, "Cut off all your hair."

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired, and John dumbly shook his head.

"Well then." Sherlock turned around, retrieved the sketchbook his keyring, and started towards the door. "We have a few errands to run. Come along, John."

With every step he took, the physical ones away from the clothes and the metaphorical ones away from James and feminization, he felt like a new person. Or, in all actuality, the person he'd been seven months ago, before James Moriarty came into his life.

Nor was he however, completely out of the woods yet.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p>Notes: Just a little fyi, because it's a term that will be coming up often in the next chapter or so: French letters refer to condoms. It's a previous-century term for rubbers; not actual letters written in French. I believe the term technically came into popular use during WWI, but they wouldn't be referred to as condoms for at least a decade after the setting of this story, so I found the term appropriate.<p>

Thank you for reading, and I'm so sorry I haven't updated! It's been a bit hard finding time to write, and unfortunately my computer died halfway through typing this. I managed to finish it, though, so here it is for you~

I'm posting tonight (03/13/2013) without betaing. My beta, peonyvase (That's her tumblr username, because I'm too lazy to try and remember her FFN pen right now) will probably have it beta'd by the end of the week, however, so I'll put in her edits at that time.

Thanks once again for reading!


	11. Chapter Ten: So Begins the Chase

**Chapter Ten: So Begins the Chase**

* * *

><p>Sherlock's second exit from the bedroom was almost as surprising as the first. Instead of the garments John had gotten used to seeing him in, the feminized evening suits with their long cuffs and soft fabrics, he was wearing a decidedly different, completely masculine style. He was in shirtsleeves and trousers; it was the first time John had seen him in only one layer of clothing. Of course, this was less of a statement than it may have been an hour ago. It was surprising to see him out of the waistcoat and suit jacket, but where it may have seemed revealing before, it was now just strange. Revealing tended to lose its meaning when you'd seen a person naked.<p>

They were too big for him, the shirt and trousers, but he had on a belt pulled tight at his slim waist and he wore them well. They draped well. John liked how he looked, and he would have commented on it (the words 'You look nice' were just behind his lips) but Sherlock continued quickly forward from the bedroom doorway, businesslike and somehow more commanding than John had ever seen him.

"Do you have a knife?" Sherlock stepped up to him and held out his hand, not exactly impatient but not inclined to wait for too long. "I know you must, because you sharpened your charcoals with something."

"Um, yeah." Quickly so as to appease Sherlock, John patted his pockets—he stuck everything in his pockets, so he was never sure which one a certain object was in at any one time—and eventually found the knife in the right front pocket of his trousers. It was small and red, given to him long ago by someone he couldn't remember. Holding it out, he asked, "Why?"

"It's quite sharp, yes?" Just as John had suspected, Sherlock did not answer the question. He did not even look at John once he'd been given the knife. Instead, he continued on to the ornamental mirror over the mantelpiece and began tying up his hair. This only made John even more curious about the intended purpose of the knife.

"Yes…"

"Good."

Bemused, John watched Sherlock tie the ribbon tight into a ponytail further up on his head than he usually tied it. Then he took the entire bundle in his hand and cut it off just above the ribbon. It fell neatly into Sherlock's hand, bound at the top still by the ribbon. John knew he looked comically shocked—he could see himself in the mirror, after all—but had absolutely no power to change his facial expression.

So he just stood there in awe as Sherlock merely smirked, as though he chopped massive amounts of his own hair off every day, and held it out to John. Waved it. "A memento for James."

John opened his mouth and said the only thing that would come to mind. "You just…cut off all your hair."

"Problem?" Sherlock inquired. John shook his head the negative—and even if John _had_ a problem, Sherlock made it quite obvious with just one stare that it was not _his_ problem.

Nodding his satisfaction, Sherlock mumbled, "Well then," and picked all items of import—John's sketchpad, his keyring—before heading towards the door. "We have a few errands to run. Come along, John."

John went along, like a dog whose name had been called, and tried to connect the Sherlock of an hour ago with the Sherlock that had just walked out of that bedroom. He was a new man, almost unrecognizable, and not only because of the wardrobe change and the shorter hair. Something had changed in the way he held himself. It was subtle, and not something easily identified, but it was there. He was no longer vulnerable, he was no longer trying to hide who he was.

He was confident. Completely in charge. Sexy.

They did not go far. Only across the hall, where Sherlock opened the door—the second key on the ring apparently went to this door—and led the way into a stateroom that was remarkably similar to the other one. However, this one did not look lived-in. It at first looked as though Sherlock had somehow obtained the key to an unoccupied stateroom. There was not a single trace of human inhabitance.

However, it seemed as though Sherlock knew very well where he was going, as he hurried into the bedroom, positioned at the exact same place on the wall as in his own stateroom, and gestured for John to follow him. When he came into the room to see a big, black safe sitting on the dresser, John realized why they were in this room. This was James Moriarty's stateroom.

"Are you trying to get us caught?" John snapped, grabbing Sherlock's forearm even as he bent to get eyelevel with the dial on the safe. "Or are you just _fucking_ insane? Why the hell would you bring us into this room of all places?"

"Calm yourself, John," Sherlock muttered, attention entirely on the dial. "I know exactly what I'm doing…" with that, the safe clicked and popped open, and Sherlock pulled it wide. He then took John's sketchpad from under his arm, and seemed to hesitate. He said, "Will you let me put this in the safe?"

"The entire pad?" John asked.

"Yes."

"I…don't think…" It was precious to him. Nearly all of his drawings since he'd rediscovered art were in there. The book connected him to Mary, and had both her name and his in it. It had drawings of her in it, and how else would he remember what she looked like years from now when he hadn't seen her in so long… "Why can't you just take out the drawing of you?"

Sighing, Sherlock stared at the sketchpad and muttered, "Because…I feel as though this represents you. You, as a person, are embodied in this sketchbook…and I realize that it's important, but I promise you that as soon as we get to New York, I'll buy you a new one. I just…" Now he seemed small again. John was amazed at what a difference in appearance a simple hunching of shoulders could make. He wanted to embrace Sherlock and tell him that it was okay if his brain moved faster than his mouth sometimes, that he didn't always have to know the exact words to express what he wanted. However, Sherlock found the words before he could. "You are a much better person than him. I can't be certain that it will translate to him from these drawings, true. But perhaps he'll realize that you'll treat me better than he ever would have."

John's breath caught in his throat. It was then that he realized, while Mary was an important part of his past, she was just that. His past. Sherlock was present and future. They were entangled now. Irreversibly.

He nodded. "Alright. Yes. Do it."

So Sherlock slid the sketchpad into the safe, along with his hair and ribbon, and a note he'd written that read _Checkmate, darling_.

John did not know what this meant, nor did he expect Sherlock to explain.

"Where to from here?" John mumbled, after they both wasted a moment staring in rapt fascination at the safe lock. "I don't think we can stay together. We certainly can't stay here, and it would look strange if you were to stay in my cabin. Do you think Irene Adler might be able to hide you? I can take care of myself, just stay in third class. We can meet up when we dock…"

"_No_."

"What?" John was a bit shocked at the vehemence with which Sherlock spat his objection.

"No, I don't want us to separate. It's the worst thing we can do, John. I've only just escaped and if you don't stay with me, they'll…" Sherlock stopped, and closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his mouth. He hissed. "No. We're not separating."

Slowly, placating, John nodded and patted Sherlock's shoulder. "Alright. We won't separate. Still, we need to move. We're sitting ducks."

"We're men, John."

"That's not what I—"

John found his mouth covered by Sherlock's hand. There were easier ways to tell someone to shut up, obviously, and John glared at him and began to remove his hand, until he realized that Sherlock was listening to a noise coming from the living room. Fear shot through John and he became immediately silent, immediately still, and strained to hear what Sherlock was hearing.

A man's voice came through the door. "Mister Holmes? Mister Moriarty is asking after your health."

"My fiancé's valet," Sherlock hissed into John's ear. "He's across the hall, I believe. He won't think to look in here…probably."

The way Sherlock said it sounded uncertain, and John bit down a retort—it would have been pointless to complain—to instead mutter, "What do we _do_?"

When Sherlock did not immediately reply, John felt his heart sink. Sherlock was the genius, the proverbial Man with the Plan. If he could not think of something, _anything_ that would get them out of the stateroom undetected, they were pretty well fucked.

"We could hide," John said, in a desperate grab for salvation. He glanced at the closet, but Sherlock was already shaking his head.

"Moran is a bloodhound," Sherlock muttered. Across the hall, 'Moran' was still knocking on the door. "But if James has done what I think he's done, we may have an opportunity to escape. James has a key to my stateroom. If he's given Moran the key, we may be able to slip out of this room while he's in the other one."

Slowly, Sherlock inched towards the door. John followed along behind, hand gripping Sherlock's elbow. He felt a sense of dread, somewhere at the back of his mind. At the forefront was a thrill of adrenalin, a prickling in his finger and toes that made him hum with a kind of familiar energy. It was like he was back in India, approaching certain danger and refusing to heed any instinct of self-preservation he had. Although he had a feeling that nothing could end well, he did not make any attempt to stop Sherlock.

They crept across the living area, until they reached the stateroom's door and Sherlock pressed his ear against it. John could no longer hear Moran knocking on the door, or calling through it, or even moving.

"He's gone," Sherlock muttered. "I think. Come on. We've got to leave." John reflects that Sherlock has been saying a lot of maybes and probablies and 'I think's in the last few minutes, and when Sherlock Holmes is uncertain it seems no one really _can _be, but John also knows that Sherlock Holmes' 'have to' and 'got to's are certainties in and of themselves, and should not be ignored if at all possible.

So although going out in the open was the last thing he wanted to do, he squared his shoulders and nodded. Sherlock backed away from the door to turn the knob and poke his head around the door. Without looking, Sherlock stuck a hand out behind him.

"People will talk," John murmured, yet took the hand anyway and squeezed reassuringly.

Sherlock scoffed and glanced back at him. "People do little else."

John's lips quirked in a smile that was more a spasm than an actual expression. He and Sherlock stared at each other for a moment, then Sherlock bowed his head to kiss the corner of John's mouth. When he pulled back, he suddenly looked vulnerable. John licked his lips and Sherlock said, "Don't leave me," firmly. Firmly, but his eyes said _please please don't desert me_.

"I won't," John said, and decided right then and there that, when the ship docked, he and Sherlock were going to get as far away from James Moriarty as was humanly possible and figure out some way to live that involved Sherlock being able to do what he wanted, what he _really wanted_, and neither of them being lonely ever again.

They walked out of the stateroom, only to realize that Moran was no gone, per say—he had, as Sherlock suspected he might, gone into the stateroom across he hall. The door was ajar, and although John could not see far into he room, it was the only conclusion.

"Hurry," Sherlock hissed, gripping John's hand tight. "Get around the corner before he comes back out the room."

They sped up. When they were near the end of the hall, a deep, gravely voice came from the other end.

"Mister Holmes?"

Sherlock ignored him. John used all of his considerable willpower to resist glancing over his shoulder.

"Mister Holmes!" came again, and the pounding of shoes on the carpet.

"Shit," Sherlock growled, and then said, "Run."

"What?"

"Run!"

All of John's instincts reacted and, just before taking off at a run, he glanced over hi shoulder to identify his predator.

Moran was a huge man. He would have towered over John, should they ever stand next to each other—a possibility which John sincerely hoped never came to fruition. Moran's arms and chest were thick and strained the tux he was wearing; James Moriarty must have dispatched his bloodhound right from the dinner table. He didn't have short legs either, which was sometimes an advantage when men had such huge trunks. In short, Moran looked like he could tear anything in his path apart, including John Watson.

It took his brain and eyes a moment to catch up with his body, and by that time he and Sherlock were already skidding around the corner. There stood the door to the stairs, which Sherlock flung open and dragged John thought. They did not stop until they were three floors down and back out the stairwell, somewhere in a second class corridor on D deck.

For a second, they leaned against the wall and caught their breath. Then, one of them—John wasn't sure which—began to chuckle. It was infectious, and they leaned there for quite a while, gasping out laughs and clutching stitches in their sides and essentially being one enormous mess.

John said, "That bloke was huge! You say he's a valet?"

"Technically," Sherlock snorted, and they laughed again. "Although I'm sure he wasn't hired as merely a valet." Then, glancing back through the window in the door, Sherlock said, "Do you think I's safe? Perhaps if we work our way to Mrs. Hudson's cabin, she'll allow us sanctuary."

"Maybe," John said, although he couldn't quite remember who Mrs. Hudson was. "Where is it, though? If it's—"

To his horror Moran ran onto the landing from the stairway from C deck. He and John met eyes through the window for a bare split second and at the same moment Moran began to advance, John grabbed Sherlock's forearm—he didn't have the time to actually look down and locate his hand—and yelled, "Run!"

Sherlock yelped, and John felt him nearly trip. He stayed up, though, probably out of sheer dumb luck and John's force being stronger than gravity at the moment. Together they ran down the length of the corridor, turned the corner, and fled into what John recognized as a crew passage.

They could have gone up and looped back around. It appeared that Moran's weakness came in his lumbering steps and inability to run very fast, and even dragging each other around he and Sherlock were faster than him. They also had a good head start, so it was entirely possible that looping back around would be the best plan, given that they were not really familiar with the ship and, at least going up, they knew they were going to end up on A deck at some point.

But Sherlock looked down at the steep steps and said, "How far down do you think it goes?"

"As far as the engines, I'd imagine," John replied, and Sherlock looked at him with a certain look in his eyes, which flew all the way to John's stomach.

"Could be dangerous," said Sherlock.

John responded by grabbing the railing and swinging himself over and onto the steps.

* * *

><p>An irrepressible thrill of excitement went down his spine as John swung himself onto the stairs. He held a hand out to Sherlock, an obvious offer of assistance, but Sherlock waved the hand away and swung himself over—because he was not an invalid, <em>thank you<em>, nor was he the fragile crystal glass his mother tried to make him seem. Below him, John chuckled and said, "Well you're just a bundle of surprises this evening."

Sherlock knew what John meant—cutting off his hair had been a shock, as had the drawing commission, as had several other things, and he honestly didn't think he was done doing insane things this evening, but it really wasn't surprising anymore—but, to one who had just won back his freedom by fighting tooth and nail for it, it was an incredibly sore spot to hit.

"I told you I was a boxer," Sherlock snapped, as they began their descent into the bowels of the ship. "What makes you think I'm not athletically inclined?"

Again John chuckled and just responded, "I just forgot, is all."

Sherlock huffed without any real grudge, all of the anger flying out of him as soon as it had arrived, and for the next little while they were quiet, climbing down the step ladders and switching at landings. Every once in a while they would run into a crew member, who barked that they were not allowed in the crew passages. They were ignored.

They kept their ears open for sounds from above, for any indication that Sebastian Moran was still in hot pursuit. They listened until they could no longer, when the constant dull hum from below turned into a fully-fledge roar that made their eardrums vibrate in their heads, and the red-hot heat from the engines radiated up to sting their faces.

Heedless to the common sense tapping at his brain, telling him to go no further, Sherlock swooped past the point of no return and down into the bowels of the ship. There was a three-foot drop from the end of the latter to the floor, and right after he hit the ground he was forced to step back, lest John come down on his head as he, too, jumped down without hesitation.

"What now?" John screamed over the engines. "We can't stay here!"

"There has to be a door somewhere!" Sherlock yelled back, and glanced up and down the rows of boilers. It was massive and hot and _loud_. He felt his recently-shortened hair plastered to his head with the sweat that instantly erupted on his forehead and temples. It was appropriate, he thought wryly, both that this was as far down as you could go, and that he and John had ended up here, because if Sherlock was ever going to get a taste of Hell before he was dead and gone, this was it.

"We're at the stern, if that helps," John yelled. "Engines need to be as close to the propellers as possible to power them."

"I realize that," Sherlock replied, more out of irritation at the situation than John. The heat and noise had taken the excursion from exiting to irritating remarkably quickly.

One of the crewmen had finally noticed them. He approached, and before he could say anything, Sherlock asked, "Excuse me, but is there an exit back up that isn't this one?" and pointed to the ascending ladder that he and John were still standing directly below.

The crewman stared at him for a second, as though confused by Sherlock's very existence, let alone his inquiry. Eventually he said, "There's one in the cargo, but you can't be here!"

As he said this, he pointed, and Sherlock knew what direction to go in. he nodded, thanked the man, and assured, "Oh, we won't be here much longer."

John laughed as Sherlock turned around and started in the designated direction. The baffled crewman yelled, "But you can't _be _here!"

They ignored him—and the shouts of his coworkers, who began taking notice of them as they ran through the rows of boilers without any regard for subtlety—and ran in the direction he'd specified, eager to get out of the hellish conditions of the boiler room.

The cargo hold was much cooler. I was, in fact, quite chilly. Sherlock spared a moment wondering how in the world the cargo hold was so cold, when the boilers were right next door and shared a thin wall. One would have thought even ambient heat from a room with such a high temperature would warm up the place somewhat. Then, he realized that he really did not care—as long as they were out of the boilers, and far enough away from Sebastian Moran for them not to be easily locatable, he was fine with their current circumstances.

"Well," John muttered, "we can't really stay here either."

"No, but we can at least take a moment to rest." They'd been running, Sherlock could only assume, for at least twenty minutes. John had a bad leg which, although psychosomatic, could be paining him at this point. Curiously, however, John seemed to no even acknowledge the problem with his leg. He was more out of breath than anything, and nodded in agreement with Sherlock's suggestion.

"Only a few minutes," John muttered. "I don't know where we're going, but until we get somewhere where Moran can't follow, I don't want to stop for too long…and I think our little jog through the boilers proved that he can definitely follow us down here." John glanced around, somewhere behind Sherlock's head, and then pointed to a spot vaguely over his shoulder. "Over there. We can rest and keep out of sight."

It was a car; Daimler, Sherlock believed. Similar to the one that James owned and Sebastian Moran drove for him. This one was red, however, instead of green, and had the distinct advantage of never having contained a Moriarty. So they lifted themselves up into the cab and sunk down in the seats, with John rubbernecking around and running his hands along the velvet seats.

"Have you never been in a car before?" mumbled Sherlock. He stared out the window into the cargo hold beyond. It felt odd to be sitting in a car, and instead of trees and buildings seeing crates and bags and the large, metal rafters and pillars. The sounds the ship made were in a deep decibel, disconcerting even to the strongest disposition. Sherlock sunk down further in the seat, eyelevel with the bottom of the window, and kept his eyes on the door to the cargo hold.

"I hitched a ride on the back of a lorry a few times. Does that count?"

"No."

He heard John's low chuckle in response, and Sherlock smirked at the window.

"I can see you."

"See me doing what?" Sherlock asked, even though he knew the answer and could see John reflected in the window, grinning over his shoulder.

"Smiling. You think you're hiding it, but I can see you."

"I smile often."

"Do you really?" Now the smile was gone, and John came closer on the seat. Sherlock watched him in he window, eyes no longer focused on the door, but on John's transparent image superimposed over the dark cargo hold. Saw John's arm move and felt his hand, lightly and gently, on his hip, and to his own surprise didn't feel the need to shift away, to rotate away. John's hand was warm and his eyes were soft.

Sherlock bit his lip, and looked down. "I used to."

"Can't even begin to imagine what happened. Surely it has nothing to do with your lovely fiancé."

Again, Sherlock snorted, although without humor. "I wonder, sometimes, if it really is that. My engagement may just have been the trigger for something…inevitable." He looked away from the window, to stare at the back of the driver's seat.

"You're afraid you're going to turn into your father."

"Essentially…yes. My father's death was…" He sighed, and tilted his head back to stare at the roof. "It was…painful. Watching him fall apart was _painful_. He started declining when I was young, ten at most, but it wasn't until I was thirteen that it started making a marked difference in his behavior. He became…a stranger. A stranger to us, and a stranger to himself. He would go long periods of time without speaking, without eating. Just looking straight ahead and not speaking to anyone. He was volatile, he would lash out…" He breathed against the onslaught of bad memories and murmured, "I think I'm turning into him."

He tilted his head to the side, to look at John, and found him much closer than expected. He wasn't uncomfortable with it, strangely enough. Nor was he uncomfortable when John haltingly came closer, kissed his mouth. He wasn't uncomfortable, or nervous. It felt good.

They pressed their foreheads together and breathed, and John murmured, "Are you okay?"

"Yes." For the first time in a while, he wasn't lying. His hand rose and found John's and their fingers intertwined, and for a moment Sherlock processed the magnitude of what was about to happen, of what they were doing. Sherlock whispered, "I think…I'd like it if you'd touch me."

He hadn't been expecting John to laugh, but it wasn't insulting. It was a warm, lighthearted chuckle. It relaxed the last bit of uncertainty he had. "I think I'd like that too." Their fingers continued to twist over each other, and something like anticipation built up in Sherlock's lower back. John murmured, "Nervous?"

"No."

"Really?" laughed John. "Because I am."

Sherlock smiled against John's cheek, took John's hand and lowered it to his thigh. Warmth radiated from him, from his hand and his leg pressed against Sherlock's and his side and his forehead and his breath on Sherlock's face. John's hand sipped between his legs and he drew the heel of his hand over Sherlock's burgeoning arousal, all the while staring into his eyes. It was the most erotic thing Sherlock had ever experienced.

* * *

><p>The expanse of pale skin below him was glowing, ripe for the kissing. John's lips trailed their way his way up the side of Sherlock's neck as he basked in the afterglow.<p>

"You alright?" John whispered.

"I'm…I'm more that alright."

So John grinned against Sherlock's neck, and twisted their fingers together and determinedly _did not_ think about the fact that the man below him had been a virgin thirty minutes ago. Because he would start regretting what he'd done, and he didn't want to.

It had been beautiful.

"When we're done catching our breaths," John murmured, "we should go."

"Alright." Sherlock ran his long fingers through John's hair, and kissed his forehead. His chest was heaving underneath John's cheek, so he knew they would not be moving for a while, but he wasn't bothered. He stared out of his peripheral vision at the roof of the car. Sherlock had left a handprint on the window, sometime between releasing his purchase on the fabric of the seats and finding his way to John's back. Sometime while he was wrestling against his orgasm tooth and nail and trying to find something to hold onto, to bring him back from the edge.

Then the door to the cargo hold opened and John did not know he could sit up and get dressed so fast. Sherlock swore and grabbed his clothing, climbed over John to get out of the car and run across the hold floor, behind a crate. John, braces in hand, followed him.

"What the _fuck_," John hissed. He clipped his braces to his pants and lifted them over his shoulders, watching Sherlock pull his trousers up over his modesty and determinedly _not thinking_ about the way Sherlock's bare bum felt under his fingers. "I thought we lost him!"

"It could be anyone," Sherlock mused—John thought he was being a little _calm_ given the situation—and pulled his shirt on. He'd never unbuttoned it, but nor did he bother tucking it in. "But I didn't fancy the idea of being stuck in that car, naked, if someone happened to walk by." Then, glancing over John's head, gestured. "There."

Ten yards away, there was something white hanging from the ceiling. As John's eyes adjusted, he realized it was the ladder back up. They inched towards it, as footsteps neared them, and Sherlock helped John get up to the ladder—three feet off the ground might not have been a lot, but it was hard to pull himself up with his shoulder—and then climbed up himself.

Near the top, John glanced back down. Two stewards stood in the door to the car, looking utterly confounded, and John realized they were looking for _them_. That Moran had reported back, reported Sherlock running, and someone—most likely Moriarty—sent two of the stewards in pursuit.

They climbed, up, up until they reached D deck, where they fell out the door leading onto the bow. It was cool out, and completely dark out now. The wind felt wonderful against John's hot skin.

"That was close," John sighed, rubbing his forehead. "He's got people _looking for _you. Shit, what are we going to do?" He glanced over at Sherlock, who had a strange look on his face. "What?"

"I'm disembarking with you," Sherlock whispered, as he drew closer. "I have some money. When we get to New York, I want to get as far away as possible. I'm disembarking with you…and I'm never going to look back."

John didn't know what to say, so he just kissed him, pressed his hand against the back of Sherlock's head and held on tight.

That's when the world shook underneath their feet.

* * *

><p><strong>End Chapter<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes<strong>: Okay, so I decided that a full sex scene was not appropriate for this story. I did, however, write one; I'll probably post it as a deleted scene when I'm done with the entire story. Sorry if you were disappointed, but I felt it would detract from the sobriety of the plot so far if I were to write a love scene.

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed!


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